Quis Separabit
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: Harry's expertise on the ever thorny issue of Northern Ireland is called upon once more, reawakening many a bitter memory. Meanwhile, the Peace Process slowly moves ahead but not everyone is willing to follow; not all the bitter past is willing to stay buried.
1. Immovable Object

**Harry's expertise on the ever thorny issue of Northern Ireland is called upon once more, reawakening many a bitter memory. Meanwhile, the Peace Process slowly moves ahead but not everyone is willing to follow; not all the bitter past is willing to stay buried. **

**This is a reworking of a story that was pulled from the site earlier in the year. To avoid repetition, the story has been radically rejigged with new characters introduced.**

Special thanks to **Antonia Caenis** for extra information on Harry's early army career.

* * *

**Chapter One: Unstoppable Force**

"…_the enemy strikes; vengeance for the dead becomes an ethic for the living, bloodshed begets further bloodshed; the wheel turns, the generations tread and tread and tread."_

_(Seamus Heaney, notes on 'Beowulf'. 1999)_

**January, 1976. Crossmaglen, South Armagh.**

Snowflakes swirled on a gusting wind, catching the light of the swerving headlamps as a clapped out Vauxhall veered across the narrow country lane. So narrow, both the bonnet and the bumper almost wedged between the grass verges that marked the boundaries between road and endless farmland. The driver cursed as the engine cut out, thumping the steering wheel with one clenched fist and cursing loudly. He turned the key in the ignition, causing the engine to splutter and choke, before falling silent and dead again. The driver paused, hand still gripping the key, not daring to breathe while he succumbed to awful truth. That his car had finally died and he'd have to get out and run for it.

He had wasted time already. Driven too far south and crossed the border into County Monaghan; not realising until the headlights flashed off a welcome sign written in Gaelic. The handbrake turn he'd pulled off in response would have made a racing driver sick with envy, before he came haring North again, back into the blizzards and head-on winds. In doing so, he realised he had probably driven the final nail into the coffin of his civilian motor, already a mobile rust bucket long before it was passed down to him. It was blocking the road, but there was little he could do about it with the nearest telephone box a good two miles back towards the border. But luckily, the faint lights of Crossmaglen twinkled in the near distance and if he ran, he knew he could make it in time.

Once out of the car, the frigid, frozen air burned at his lungs and slapped him in the face like a final insult. Impeding him further was poor visibility. Snow continued to swirl violently, making his eyes water and his vision blur. After years of city living, he'd forgotten how dark the countryside could be. But those years of extra drills and strenuous cross-country runs at Sandhurst paid off as he found himself to be still fast of foot. Even in the ever deepening snow, he kept on running and running, with his arms wrapped round his middle, keeping his flapping jacket hugged tight around him. He followed the lights; blind to the dark, rolling countryside that now lay carpeted in a thick layer of virgin snow.

Even the town was deserted, except for the miserable foot patrol army officers skulking in the shadows and hunching round dark corners. He could see them only from the tail of his eye, didn't notice them until they moved or their radios crackled into life. But the town itself was tiny. Barely a street, with a few side streets leading off the main thoroughfare to god knows where. It was small wonder he missed it the first time round. The pub he was supposed to be in was on a corner of an intersection off the main high street. Its low perimeter wall pock marked with bullet holes and discoloured with ancient republican graffiti. An Irish tricolour offered a rare glimpse of colour as it hung limply from a lamp post outside the main door of the bar. Round the side, he knew, there was a side entrance leading to the side street where the draymen made their deliveries every morning.

Breathless and sweating, he paused, doubling over with hands on knees as he fought to regain his breath. MI5 had approached him, not so long ago. If he had accepted their offer, then he knew he wouldn't be in this fix now. But 'what ifs' were getting him nowhere, and not twenty feet away he knew a Military Intelligence Officer's life was in jeopardy. With the car dead, he didn't even know what he would do in the event of an emergency extraction. The nearest foot soldier was at the other end of town, so they'd have to be bloody fast if they wanted to make it in time. The Police wouldn't come to Crossmaglen, either. Their mere presence would cause a riot among the locals. That was the reason the troops had been called in in the first place, because the RUC had lost control of the Republican districts. 'It would only be for a week or two,' they had said, at the time. That was seven years ago now, and the war ground mercilessly onwards, never ceasing, never letting up.

But whatever was happening at that moment, it wasn't over yet. So the young man lowered himself between the pub and the outer perimeter wall and hunkered down beneath one of the shuttered front windows. The feel of the handgun wedged into a holster under his jacket offered some reassurance as he listened to faint voices emanating from within the barroom. He couldn't pick up what they were saying. To try and get a better idea of what was going on inside, he levered himself up from the ground, trying to get a peek through the shutters over the windows. Even though he could see nothing, he remained in that position until a familiar voice sent him into near cardiac arrest.

"You made it then, Harry?"

The younger man cursed as he bolted round. Kendall had approached him from the side door, grinning like the lunatic he'd proved himself to be several times over. His thick moustache had collected a considerable smattering of snowflakes and his grey eyes twinkled in the light of the lamp post nearby.

"I heard you were fucking compromised!" Harry hissed back. "I drove that bastard rust bucket all the way from Belfast-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sound of Kendall's laughter. Harry's face contorted into something torn between anger and amusement, unable to decide which emotion best suited the scenario he found himself in. Kendall closed the space between them and knelt down in the snow so they were level. When he spoke, he did so in barely a whisper.

"Sean Mallon is in there with his cronies," he explained, deadly serious now. "He knows a tout put him behind bars and he suspected me, that's true enough. But I set him right, don't worry. Now stay out of sight, for fuck's sake. You're in over your head, Pearce. I'll be out again in no more than an hour. I'll get you back to the rust bucket in one piece."

With that, he turned and walked away. His six foot four inch gangly frame loping back into the darkness, back into the lion's den of the IRA drinking club inside. Harry had to remind himself Kendall was a professional; that he'd been undercover with the Provisionals for almost a year. But it didn't stop his heartbeat racing, or the feelings of sickness swelling in the pit of his stomach as he strained his ears to try and pick up what was being said. It was nothing more than an indecipherable buzz punctuated, ten agonising minutes later, by a ringing gun shot that pierced the night time silence around him.

For several long seconds, Harry's heartbeat ceased altogether. When it started again, it did so at thrice the normal speed, prompted it seemed by the shrill scream of a woman from inside. The occupants inside ran from the pub like rats from a burning building, forcing Harry to take cover lower behind the perimeter wall. Several times, he tried to peer over it to make a mental note of those who were inside, to see if Paul Kendall was among them. A thrill of terror –sickening, but undeniably exciting –gripped him as he spotted the aforementioned Sean Mallon exit, discreetly holstering a handgun as he vanished into the night with a female companion. There was no sign of Kendall anywhere. People accustomed to gun fire soon settled and those who ran from the pub initially soon settled to a quick walk down the high street. They clumped together, all chattering loudly in a haze of noise Harry could not decipher. Many, he noted, conversed in Irish and thus eliminated the risk of being overheard by lurking soldiers.

Harry waited. Freezing cold and stiff as a board in the snow, he continued to wait until long after silence fell. It was only when forced to move by the threat of frostbite that he got up and moved to the front doors of the bar. He looked inside, through the glass fronted doors and saw only emptiness inside. Cautiously, he raised one numb hand and peered round a small aperture in the door. Still nothing. Emboldened, he let himself into the deserted bar room. If anyone said anything, he would fake a southern accent and pretend his car broke down in the snow storms outside. Close to the truth, but not quite fully there.

As it happened, there wasn't even a barman around. Bar stools had been overturned. A black and white television played an RTE news broadcast that Harry scarcely paid attention to. Ashtrays still emitted thin wisps of smoke where the cigarettes had not been properly docked and the warm yellow lights fixed to the warmly gave the room an oddly welcoming feel. At the far end of the bar room, a store cupboard door was open. From just inside, a low and frantic voice recited hail Marys, dimly heard over the news broadcaster.

"Ulster Volunteer Force gunman, twenty-six year old Kyle McCracken, walked free from Long Kesh prison today. He spoke to the waiting press only to say he had no regrets over his shooting spree inside a Catholic owned business in West Belfast, in which three people were left dead…"

What was one more gunman on the streets of Belfast? Harry never got to ponder that dilemma as he rounded the bar and a large pool of blood came into view. Empty bullet casings lay scattered around its edge and there was a long smeared streak where someone had slipped in it. Further drops of blood led to the side door used mostly by the draymen. Someone took a bullet that night. Further smatterings of blood had splashed against the back wall, partially obscuring a badly reproduced leaflet advertising a march against Internment that had been tacked to a notice board. Harry ignored it and slipped out of the side door and back out into the freezing night. Immediately, his feet sank into the snow, cushioning his footfalls as to make no sound at all. But the snow was churned up where the clientele had recently fled the pub. A trail of blood had frozen into it, sunk in deep where it sparkled like scattered rubies amid the virgin white.

Once he had eased the door closed behind him, he stepped cautiously out into the deserted street. Whoever moved the body did so in a hurry and even the drag marks in the snow were quickly being obscured by a fresh fall. He barely made it the gate at the bottom of a small path before the trail vanished for good. There was still no sign of Kendall anywhere.

* * *

**London, England. November 2012.**

William Towers regarded Harry carefully from across the desk. In the personal confines of his private office inside Whitehall, he seemed somewhat deflated. Quieter, almost smaller, as their talk transcended banter and developed into something more serious. It was just the two of them now. The personal advisors, personal secretaries and hangers on had been dismissed back into the depths of the building from whence they sprang like so many spring flowers. He removed his gold rimmed spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose, a weary gesture from a weary looking man.

"So, Harry, Northern Ireland," he said, looking back at the Spook. "You're one of the surprisingly few left who still remember the dark old days of the early seventies."

Whether that was a question or a statement, Harry couldn't tell. But whatever it was, it was definitely leading somewhere. Towers' own reticence was enough to set his nerves to prickling unpleasantly.

"Mm," replied Harry, thoughtfully. "And I get the impression I haven't been called over here to reminisce about the good old days of armalites and semtex, either?"

Towers heaved a dry, mirthless laugh. "Not quite I'm afraid. You know what's going on there next week, don't you?"

Of course Harry knew, but he paused and pondered for a moment anyway.

"These talks at Hillsborough Castle?" he asked, rhetorically. "All the main parties in Northern Ireland are barely cooperating – again – so London has decided it's time to step in and give the peace process a shot in the arm. Talks aimed at attracting investment, increasing cooperation between the Nationalist communities and the Police Service; negotiations between rival factions to clear the air before they start blowing each other up again."

"And of course, before they get any funny ideas about blowing up London again," Towers added.

Harry raised a wan smile, mildly amused at how he'd managed to miss that gem of self-interest. "Despite the lack of cooperation between the two main parties, the threat level from paramilitaries – both Republican and Loyalist – remain low. Even fifteen years into the peace process, as you yourself know, all known organisations are under constant surveillance. The main Republican group, the Provisional IRA, all seem to have found second careers as 'Community Workers' and their Loyalist counterparts, the Ulster Volunteer Force, are quite content with protection rackets and drug smuggling."

Towers paled, making a choking noise deep in his throat. "Goodness, Harry, that's hardly ideal!"

"What would you rather they were doing?" retorted Harry, defensively. "These groups were never going to go away completely, but at least they're not waging war against each other. Their activities now are strictly a matter for the Police Service of Northern Ireland to deal with. No, Home Secretary, the biggest terrorist threat comes from dissident Republicans. Most of whom are not organised enough to plot so much as a piss up in a brewery."

"That's not an excuse for complacency-"

"Nor is it being used as such," Harry cut the man off. "You know me better than that. But all I can do is assure you that all groups are being monitored closely, very closely. Anyway, the aims of these talks are being viewed by the Loyalists as benefitting mainly the Republicans. What are giving them to keep them sweet?"

Towers did not reply immediately. His steel-grey eyes cast downwards, towards the crystal glass containing water from a cooler. The brevity of their meeting and the subject at hand dictated that the usual excellent malt whiskey remain safely in the cabinet. The Home Secretary took a long sip, thinking things over carefully.

"We've agreed to resume searching for the Disappeared," he said, making Harry wince.

"The Republicans will love that!" he retorted. "They'll think we're using the past to hold them to ransom. The Provisionals have already decommissioned all their weapons and the unconditional ceasefire has been in place since 1997. What more can they do, bearing in mind the dissidents are completely beyond their control?"

Towers understood. Harry could see that. But he could also see the man was in an impossible position. The immovable object of Ulster Loyalism had met the unstoppable force of Irish Republicanism once more, with the Governments of the United Kingdom and the Irish Republic caught somewhere in the middle of them, attempting to slowly ease them together without causing a catastrophic detonation.

"Well, here's a bit more progress for you on that front," said Towers, brightening up a little. "Kyle McCracken has agreed to meet the Irish Taoiseach actually in Dublin itself."

Harry was genuinely surprised. "Well, well," he replied. "He's crossing into enemy lines, isn't he? What does the rest of his party think of that? I supposed he wouldn't even think about it without their backing."

"I don't bloody care what the rest of his party think of it," Towers snorted. "If there's a chance that even hard line Loyalists like McCracken are now willing to work with Dublin it means less stress for us."

Small wonder Towers had looked so jolly as he revealed this meeting. McCracken was Northern Ireland's First Minister, a staunch Crown Loyalist and Orangeman who'd got this far in his career without even acknowledging the authenticity of the Republic of Ireland's legitimacy. However, Towers' expression had taken on an air of imploration once more.

"Harry," he said, plaintively. "I need you and your team out in Belfast, watching over everything that happens during these talks. I cannot impress upon you enough-"

"Alright, alright!" Harry interjected, holding up his free hand almost as an act of surrender. "I cannot abide seeing powerful men beg."

"Oh, bullshit Harry, you love it," Towers rounded on him, good naturedly.

Harry had to admit it, too. But he had grown genuinely fond of Towers, the first Home Secretary in years to actually go out of his way to help not just him, but Section D and MI5 as a whole. But soon, Towers turned serious again. Peculiarly pensive as he regarded the Section Head once again.

"You knew one of the Disappeared, didn't you?" he asked.

Harry felt the weight of history shifting inside him once more. An uncomfortable squirming like a snake in his gut, fighting its way out through his chest. The Disappeared: a substantial number of people, mainly Catholics accused of collaboration and British Soldiers, who had been captured, tortured and murdered by the IRA. Their bodies lay in secret graves, forgotten and mourned only by their relentless next of kin.

"Paul Kendall," Harry answered. "A military intelligence officer and a good one at that. As it happens, I saw him the same night he disappeared."

Harry remembered it all: the trail of blood in the snow, vanishing into the darkness; an eerie silence, deserted barrooms and gunshots shattering the night. A residual sense of dread closed over him whenever those days thrust their way back into his conscious mind; a paranoid feeling that something terrible was happening just beyond the periphery of his vision. Shadows within shadows…

Meanwhile, Towers look as though he wanted to say more. "We'll be searching for them again, Harry," he assured him. "All of them."

With that, their meeting came to an end and Harry got up to leave. Ruth was waiting in a nearby café and he was keen to be back with her. However, before crossing the street outside, Harry paused on the bustling pavement trying to catch his breath. In the event, she saw him before he saw her. She barged between two burly builders as she dashed across the street to catch him up, clutching her handbag like a shield, a smile spread wide across her face, pale blue eyes shining in the early autumnal sun.

"Hey!" she greeted him breezily, planting a kiss on his cheek. "How'd it go?"

"Pretty badly, to be completely honest," he replied, kissing her back.

It was such a routine thing for them now, so many months after their marriage; a reminder of how far they'd come. How far he had come. But in light of his discussion with William Towers, also a reminder of how far he had to fall back down again. Down into a place where the truth lay hidden and buried in an unmarked grave.

* * *

Ros cleared her throat. "You and I have had a rough year, to say the least."

She and Lucas were sat at her dinner table, finishing up the last of the takeaway meal Ros had lovingly plated up for them both. Work had run on late and there hadn't been time for anything else if they were to get to bed before four am. But now Lucas watched her from over the rim of the wine glass he was drinking from, worry in his eyes at the sudden rearing up of their recent unhappy past. It was almost a year to the day that Vaughan Edwards had rocked up on his doorstep. A date he had mentally marked out in his head, but had absolutely no intention of speaking aloud, unless forced. It was only Ros' look of satisfied contentment that set his jittery nerves at ease, reassuring him that she was not angry.

"Fair enough," he replied, at length. Blunt and to the point.

Ros smiled, her expression soft. "Well then," she said, almost purring. "How does a week-long stay in a stately home surrounded by lush countryside, all expenses paid, including the fine dining restaurant, luxury spa and bedrooms, sound? That should help put things back together again, no?"

Already sensing something amiss, Lucas' eyes narrowed in suspicion. Grinning anyway, despite the fact she was clearly leading him down the garden path. "Fantastic. What's the catch?"

Ros sighed. "Okay, there is just a small catch," she replied, pinching thumb and forefinger together. "A small catch: it's in Northern Ireland; there's going to be hundreds of other people there – including the whole of Section D and we'll actually be spying on a bunch of reformed terrorists masquerading as respectable politicians who still think it's 1976."

"So yeah, just a small catch then!" Lucas retorted, groaning. "You've broken my heart, Ros. Again."

"The bit about the stately home is true," she pointed out, optimistically. "Hillsborough Castle, in County Down. Very nice, actually."

Lucas shrugged. "That's something then. When do we leave?"

"Monday, according to Harry," she replied. "So we'll have to speed up the Britain First op."

Now, Lucas was genuinely aghast. "Shit, Ros, we'll have to have it wrapped up by tomorrow at the latest. Nathan's already pulling an all-nighter with the cell he's infiltrated and he's still unsteady on his feet in a new job."

Ros sighed heavily, gently rubbing at her temples. "I know, Lucas. But Nathan's not new to espionage as a whole and I think he's doing really well. Especially given his circumstances. I'll make sure he gets extra support from Beth."

Lucas didn't say anything immediately. He drained his wine glass before carefully placing it back on the table, where he proceeded to contemplate it deeply. It had been two months since the 'other' Lucas North had been despatched to meet his maker from the top of the Enver Tower, and still he hadn't been released back into the field. His opportunistic side was beginning to crackle gently back into existence.

"I could do it," he suggested, keeping his voice low. Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to meet Ros'. To his relief, she didn't look altogether unhappy as she ran a hand through her bobbed, blond hair.

After a moment's quiet consideration, she returned his gaze. "Go on then," she agreed. "I think you're just about ready. But, Beth's going in with you. You can be far-right fascist Mosque invaders together."

"A match made in heaven," he returned, deadpan. "Besides that, how do you think the new boy's coping? Any good in the field?"

"So far, so good," she answered. Then, her face lit up in a rare, full smile. "You should see Beth Bailey flirting outrageously with him!"

"I noticed a certain attraction. Since when did you care about that stuff?"

"Oh, I don't. But this is priceless, you have to admit that."

The gleeful glimmer in her eye set Lucas' suspicions in swift motion. "Er…" he said, dully.

For a long moment, Ros fixed him with a searching look.

"You're always so down on Beth," he chided. "I wish you'd give her a break. So what if she fancies the new guy?"

She looked as if she was going to say something, but then changed her mind.

"Well, the only reason I know is because I've seen his personnel file-"

"What?" he demanded, suddenly interested. "You can't come this far with me then leave me dangling. What's the newbie's big secret?"

Ros smirked and winked at him, causing an earring to sway and catch the light of a candle. "Classified. But you'll find out, and when you do just make sure you clock the look on Beth's face."

Deciding to retreat from this conversation, Lucas grinned and topped up their glasses. It was still early in their reconciliation, they were still treading soft-footed and silent around each other. But slowly, step by cautious step, they were finding their own way back to each other. Essentially, they had survived, battered but not broken. This time last year … once more Lucas cuts those thoughts off.

"I better book a taxi," he said. "It's almost midnight and I don't want to wait forever."

Across the table, Ros toyed with her left earring. Long, tapered fingers caressing the threaded stones that hung there, gently tugging. Looking at him curiously, her deep green eyes narrowed. "Are you going somewhere?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.

Unsure as to whether he had misheard, Lucas put down his phone and glanced at her. "I just… I thought…" He could lie at the drop of a hat, but the truth always came stammering out in broken, disjointed declarations of ineptitude. "You know…"

Ros remained poised and unmoved, her posture upright and stoic; one hand still toying with the earring. "Stay," she said, disregarding his stammerings. Her gaze remained locked into his. "Just for tonight; let's stay together."

He still had his mobile in his hands. Lucas opened his palm to look at it for a second before switching it off, watching as the screen went dark. He wouldn't be needing it again until morning. Once that was out of the way, he looked back up at Ros and raised a smile; a flicker of nervous excitement curling in his belly. He didn't say anything; he had no need to.

* * *

The taxi stopped at the bottom of the street, disgorging a twenty-something man onto the pavement in stiff, awkward movements. He wasn't especially tall, only five eight, but slim to the point of skinniness. His dark-fair hair curled and his bright blue eyes glittered as he leaned into the driver's window to pay his fare and tip. He waited until the driver had gone before walking casually to his door, further up the deserted street. Shoulders hunched, head down; he stifled a yawn as he turned up his garden path, to the front door of his anonymous house.

Chairman Meow, the sleek black cat, leapt down from the garden wall with a soft mewling cry for attention. While the young man let himself in, the cat rubbed himself against his lower legs, eliciting a soft curse from his owner. But he stopped, when the front door gave way onto a silent, darkened hallway, and scratched the cat's ears. Mewling cries turned to a content thrumming purr within moments.

Once inside, his finger hovered over the light switch, before falling away again. As ever, the landing light upstairs had been left on and the glow of the bulbs permeated the darkness downstairs just enough for him to see by. _Just go to bed_, he inwardly advised. _Just go to bed_. But his time undercover with the far right fanatics was still in his head; he was still that person he was when he was with them: hateful, ignorant, dangerous. It should become like shedding skins and maybe, one day, it would.

He paused by the telephone, sitting silently on its hook on the wall. It was one am, he couldn't call anyone at this hour. But if he did, maybe she would answer? She always kept funny hours. As though incapable of resistance, he lifted the receiver and dialled the number anyway. Chairman Meow settled himself at the bottom of the stairs and watched him accusingly, green eyes flashing a brilliant white as he turned his head towards his owner. Meanwhile, the phone rang shrill in his ear.

"Nathan? … Nathan, is that you?"

He whirled round, looking up the stairs to where the other man peered coyly round the corner, down at him. His voice was heavy and low, drugged with sleep. He was meant to be home hours ago and had no explanation. Not now, with his brain so fried.

"It's me, Olly," he replied against the still ringing phone. "Go back to bed; I'll be up in a moment."

"Who're you calling at this hour?"

"Hello, who is this?"

The ringing had ceased abruptly, followed immediately afterwards by the sound of a disgruntled man. Nathan's heart sank, felt his hands tremble as he willed himself to say something, anything. But his nerve broke, the receiver fell from his hands as he hurried to hang up. Once the phone was back in place he paused, leaning his forehead against the wall as he regulated his breathing once more, getting himself back in command of his own wits. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Nathan?"

Nathan turned from the wall to look back up at Oliver, dressed only in a t-shirt and football shorts. His large, dark eyes still heavy with sleep, his hair a mess of pitch dark curls.

"It's nothing," he lied. "It's no one."

Lying. Better get used to lying.

* * *

**Thank you for reading and, if you have a minute, reviews would be welcome. Thank you**.

Extra Note on Irish Language:

Taoiseach = Irish Prime Minister (pronounced tee-shock)


	2. The Wall

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**Explanatory note:** Stormont is Northern Ireland's parliament building. Established in 1922; dissolved after five decades in 1972 and re-established in 2007.

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Wall**

"We were on a hamster wheel to hell, and completely out of control."

(David Ervine, Progressive Unionist leader and ex-UVF paramilitary)

Car engines echoed down the empty side street; headlamps flooding the narrow lane with a sudden burst of light that made Lucas wince. With one hand shielding his eyes he ducked through a painted wooden doorway in the wall, finding himself in someone's backyard; clearing the way for the two blacked out transit vans that now crawled cautiously towards him. Back in darkness, he dropped his hand and pulled up the hood of the black jacket he wore over black overalls. Two feet to his left, Nathan Fraser tucked a handgun discreetly into the lining of his coat before pressing his back flat against the wall. The two of them gave each other a nod, a silent affirmation that all was as it should be. To his right, footsteps sounded softly on the wet paving stones that lined the yard. He turned to find Beth Bailey at his shoulder, her blue eyes transparent in the weak moonlight. Her blond hair had been scraped back into a ponytail and hidden under a black cap, causing her to blend in with the fast falling night.

"This is them," she said, needlessly. "Are you ready?"

He could hear the undertone of worry in her voice, but chose to ignore it. The night was too perfect for that.

"Would it make a difference if I wasn't?"

But he was ready. The corner of his mouth twisted upwards into a half-smile; his eye trained on the open doorway of the yard that was soon obscured by the first of the transit vans coming to a halt right in front of it. Slowly, Lucas zipped up his jacket and drew a deep breath to steady his quickening heartbeat. Making as if to scratch his right ear, he activated the tiny earpiece and soaked up the familiar, strangely comforting, hum as the device went live and found its frequency before fading into silence. He smiled fully as he whispered: "Alpha One."

"I hear you, Alpha One," Ros' voice sounded in his ear. "Start leading them into the mosque now … and good luck, Alpha One."

He thought that he would be nervous after so long an absence. In the last year he had been out in the field maybe twice; three times counting a certain confrontation. But otherwise, he had been rendered out of action since his past had been dragged from the shadows. Now, he was back. The engines of the transit vans cut out, the headlamps shutting off simultaneously before the driver realised and flicked them back on again a moment later. The van doors slid open; followed swiftly by the sound of several voices and footsteps landing heavily on the tarmac.

A thrill of nervous excitement coursed through him, making the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Now he was back; now he was part of the team again. He glanced to both sides of him, gesturing for Nathan and Beth to form up. As one, the three of them stepped through the narrow doorway, out into the side street still damp from recent rains and full of far right fanatics just waiting to be lured into a trap of MI5's making.

* * *

It began as a civil rights movement. They weren't Republicans; they weren't IRA. They were just Catholic people living in Northern Ireland who wanted a fair shot at the job market; decent housing, a vote and an inside toilet. It wasn't much to ask, given that their Protestant neighbours had all those things and more. Their demonstrations were peaceful; marches through town and one that wound through picturesque country roads. Massive and passive, they assembled across a tiny province to demand what everyone else in Britain already had. No one said anything about a united Ireland. No one said anything about the IRA, who were considered dead and buried in the late Sixties. Nothing, that was, until fire brand Protestants and a reactionary Protestant Stormont Government branded the Civil Rights Association as IRA controlled and incited Crown Loyalists to burn row after row of Catholic homes. As the flames engulfed Bombay Street, the thick palls of choking smoke and the cries of children fleeing in terror stirred the slumbering Irish Republican Army. An eighteen year old Catholic man was shot dead as he walked home from the Protestant owned bar he worked in – the first murder of an innocent civilian. When the flames of Bombay Street were finally doused, graffiti soon appeared on the charred shells of family homes: IRA = I Ran Away. The criticism stung; the sleeping beast of the IRA finally woke up; torn between peaceful protest and armed resistance two factions formed and the Provisional IRA was born. The genie had exploded the bottle in what would prove to be the first of countless devastating detonations.

Now, where Bombay Street once stood is a fifty foot high, razor wire topped peace wall. Fifteen years into a peace process, the wall still stands. Bigger, stronger, more heavily fortified and covered in a patchwork of graffiti pleading for peace; put there by people from all over the world. The Dalai Lama and American Presidents had even left messages there, but they all fell on deaf ears.

Harry felt like he had to step out of his own skin to look at it objectively. To forget that he is a "Brit" and set aside that he is an ex-soldier and MI5. To go right back to the start of the current crop of violence and he cannot help but conclude that it all could have been avoided with clear, rational thinking and cool headed negotiation. Usually, when he spent too long trying to make sense of Northern Ireland, he wanted to go there and bang his head repeatedly against that bastard peace wall. Or, better still, go there and bang the heads of all the politicians and all the paramilitaries off that bastard peace wall. There, problem solved! When his thoughts grew slightly murderous, he usually knew it was time to stop thinking about Northern Ireland.

Luckily for him, Ruth was at his study door wearing nothing but a silk robe tied at the waist and not much else. Even better, she was leaning against his study door and looking at him with one elbow braced against the filing cabinet and her hair tied in a loose ponytail. A few stray locks hung loose about her face, framing her high cheekbones; wide, blue eyes trained on him and a smile just playing at her lips.

"That was Ros on the phone," she said, killing Harry's newly regenerated happiness before it could take flight.

"Oh," was all he could enthuse in response and sought sanctuary by letting his gaze drift down the front of the loose robe.

"Yeah, the op's going really well and Lucas is on top form," she explained. "They lured Britain First into the Mosque by scaling the walls with grappling hooks. But, Beth and Nathan had already led the worshipers to safety and CO19 were waiting inside. Good news, huh?"

"Oh, yes. That's magnificent," he replied, addressing the exposed portion of her left breast. His favourite birthmark was just visible beneath the fold of the fabric.

"One more thing," she said, closing the space between them and sitting on his knee. "Someone phoned in a message for you at Thames House. Ros didn't say what it was."

Harry didn't care, either. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed his favourite birthmark. Ruth steadied herself by hugging his neck, one hand across the back of his shoulders.

"The man's name was Sean Mallon, though. Ring any bells?"

For a moment, Harry's heart stopped beating altogether. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze as he looked directly up at her.

"Sean Mallon," he repeated. "Are you sure?"

Ruth nodded, not noticing the sudden and adverse change in him. "Positive."

"But he wouldn't say what he wanted?"

"Just that he needed to speak with you," she replied, with a shake of her head. "According to Ros, anyway. It was she who took the message."

That night came back to him once more. The single gunshot in the isolated town, the frozen blood in a trail that led nowhere. Paul Kendall missing, never to be seen again. Sean Mallon walking away, tucking the handgun discreetly into the waistband of his jeans. Even the woman in the blue coat who walked beside him. It all came back to Harry in a rush; moments relived after years of being buried deep in his memory. Like shrapnel, it worked its way to the surface of his skin, breaking through the final barrier with pain and with blood.

"He must have heard about the talks," Harry said, trying to sound dismissive. "That's all it'll be. On Monday, before we leave for Heathrow, I want you to get his file and bring it with us. The same for Kyle McCracken and there's another for Paul Kendall, I want that too."

Ruth frowned, tightening her hold on him. "Okay," she said, softly. "Remind me on the day and it'll be done."

He could have cursed Towers for not giving them more time to prepare. Just about every politician in that place had a cemetery load of skeletons stuffed in their closets, with links to some very shady groups. But for now, he had to focus on the key players.

"Now all we need to worry about is Nathan's phone records," said Ruth. "You saw the printouts of the call logs, didn't you?"

Harry sighed and shut his eyes, as if that would block out the knowledge of what their newest recruit was doing. "Yes, I did," he conceded. "But I want to hear his explanation before taking any further action."

Section D's newest recruit had made a series of calls from his desk phone to an address in South Wales. No more than a minute in length, all ending with him hanging up moments after the calls are answered. On the surface it looked undeniably bizarre. But then, so did a lot of what MI5 did.

"Tom Quinn recommended Nathan Fraser to us," Harry reminded her. "Said he'd be an asset to the service and so far, he has been. These are just unexplained phone calls. If there is more to it, then at least we've caught him early and not after a lifetime's seemingly impeccable service."

It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. Harry and Ruth lapsed into a companionable silence; still entwined in Harry's office chair with their heads and noses touching, she simply held on to him. Sensing the change for the darker in his mood. They stayed that way until the sound of car horn from outside startled them both. Together, they whipped round towards the window that faced the road outside; Ruth almost falling to the floor. But Harry managed to grab her. After a moment's panic, they both laughed as they got back into position.

"Not that we're paranoid, or anything!" Ruth joked, but her laughter was forced.

To be certain, Harry reached around Ruth and flicked on the OC monitor behind her. She shifted so they could both see it, but all the CCTV cameras showed was their desolate garden in night-vision. Neither of them had attempted to do much with it: Ruth didn't know how and Harry thought life was too short. Ruth stretched one arm out and pressed the arrow key, changing cameras. The side path of the house was also desolate. Fidget II skulked under a bush, near an abandoned hosepipe and upturned watering can. A pair of wellington's sat by the kitchen door and there was little else to see.

"Try the front," said Harry.

Ruth pressed the arrow key again, showing their front lawn that they paid someone else to mow. But just as the image changed, a fleeting movement caught both their eyes. Quickly, Ruth pressed the back key, changing to the side path once more, bringing the intruder into view. Tall, stocky, dressed all in black with a balaclava covering his face, it caused Ruth's heart to jump into her throat. The eyes the balaclava were stretched and distorted, like some Halloween mask. For one moment, he looked directly into the camera.

"Get in the bedroom and stay there," Harry instructed.

"I'm coming with you!" she hissed back, now on her feet.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Harry collected his handgun and made sure it was loaded. "You're almost naked, Ruth," he pointed out. "Just do as I say and call the police!"

Ruth slipped soundlessly from the tiny study while Harry continued to watch the man circle their home. On screen, he almost tripped over the watering can and he just about heard the faint clatter of aluminium on concrete; then Scarlett the dog started yapping like a frenzied beast from her kennel. He eased off the safety catch as he slowly descended the stairs and entered the kitchen without turning the lights on. All the while, Harry held his breath; the dog carried on barking, with their neighbour's dog joining in to make a cacophonous chorus that would wake the dead. The trip lights outside had already have been activated and any rational burglar would have been scared off then. But Harry could never afford to be complacent about that. But soon he heard the unmistakable sound of footfalls sprinting down the driveway outside, receding into the night before Harry could even slide back the bolts from his kitchen door.

* * *

High on adrenaline, the three of them jumped from the top of the Mosque's perimeter wall. Behind them, the noise of the arrests still rang out; voices raised in anger and resounding down the echoing streets; police sirens wailing and the rhythmic click of steel handcuffs falling into place as struggling suspects were finally subdued. Beth, Lucas and Nathan landed in a jumble on the pavement outside, laughter and groans of sudden pain lost in the melee of the night.

"Hey, you're hurt," said Beth as she held her hand out to Nathan. "There's blood all over your top."

They had lost the black overalls and were now in their civilian clothing. Bright red spots of blood showed on Nathan's white t-shirt, still damp and still rather eye-catching. He zipped up his hoodie to cover it.

"One of the bastards hit me, so I had to hit him back," he replied, breathlessly.

"Nice work back there," said Lucas, still catching his own breath. "What do you say we carry this discussion on down The George?"

Beth pulled back her sleeve and tilted her wrist towards the nearest lamppost. "Still only ten. Plenty of time for a drink or ten."

"Exactly," Lucas concurred.

However, Nathan was hesitant. "Sorry guys-"

"Ah, come on!" Lucas and Bath chorused. "It's only the one!"

They were both looking at him, scandalised. "Yeah, and the other nine!" he laughed. "Look, I promised I'd be back by eight."

"Do you still live with your parents then?" asked Beth, incredulously.

"Of course not!" he retorted.

"Well then," Lucas chimed in. "You're coming down the pub. Even Ros is meeting us there."

Before Nathan could answer, another voice took them all by surprise.

"Actually, she's meeting you here."

They all squinted through the darkness, to where the woman herself was leaning out of the driver's window of a parked car. She flicked on the internal light to reveal herself, grinning and glaring at the three of them in a manner that suggested no compromises. "Get in," she drawled, lazily. "All of you."

Outnumbered and outgunned, Nathan felt his arm being metaphorically twisted a little further up his back. What would the harm in one be, anyway?

Once the car was left at Thames House, they set off on foot towards the pub, chatting excitedly about the op before electing Ros to procure the first round. A special treat for directing them so superbly. Before they went inside, however, Ros managed to get Lucas on his own in the porch that led to the main bar. She could see that it was packed inside, like a typical Saturday night. But the sound of the music was muffled and they were sheltered from the drizzling rain that had just begun to fall outside.

"Are you okay?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

They were huddled in a far corner so as not to obstruct the two doors that led into the public bar and lounge bar, respectively. Lucas looked back at her, meeting her gaze easily.

"It was fine," he promised her. "I am fine. I've never felt better."

She suppressed a sigh of relief and tried to think of something to say that wasn't utterly patronising or condescending. This last year had been hell for them both, but more so for him. He had been treated like a criminal, distrusted and disgraced; all the while fighting constantly to prove his worth. Tonight, he had achieved that. Ros knew it and soon the whole of Section D would too, soon.

"That really is just as well," she eventually replied. "Because you're back on the team, for good."

For a moment, it was thought he hadn't heard her. But then his face lit up in a bright and easy smile, one that made his eyes shine as he embraced her. They snatched a last minute kiss before ducking inside to celebrate their success against the far right with the others.

* * *

Ruth, now fully dressed, padded softly across the front lawn. Periodically, she was bathed in the blue flashing glow of the police cars outside their house. Still shaken and trembling, she came to a rest beside Harry, who was still talking to the policemen who'd arrived at their home. Their uninvited guest had triggered an alarm at Thames House, which in turn alerted the local Police. So two lots of policemen turned up after Ruth also called them. One of the Policemen was already returning to his car and driving away by the time Ruth got there.

"Good evening, Madam," the young officer greeted her with a nod.

"Hello there," she replied, linking her arm through Harry's.

Harry turned to her and tried to smile reassuringly. "There's nothing here," he said. "It was probably just a burglar who got scared off by the dogs."

"You've searched everywhere, haven't you?" she asked, turning to the Officer.

"We have," he replied. "Your neighbour sounded her car horn to try and scare him off. That would have been enough to set his nerves on edge."

Ruth remembered them both being startled by the car horn, and breathed a sigh of relief. "We must remember to thank them," she said, looking back to Harry.

"I've already checked under the car, there's nothing there," Harry said to the officer. "I'll check again before we use it, just to be sure. But it's all clear here, as far as I'm concerned."

If this was just a common attempted burglary why would he check under the car? Ruth's brow knotted into a frown as she turned back towards the black BMW she and Harry now shared. But it was late; past midnight by the time the policemen left. All she wanted to do was have her much delayed bath and try to get some sleep.

* * *

The noise inside the George had reached inhuman levels, but the Spooks barely noticed. They shared several bottles of wine between them, followed by a few rounds of beers and augmented their alcohol unit consumption with tequila slammers at the bar. It was only the vibrations inside her jacket pocket that alerted Ros to her mobile ringing. Hazily, she climbed to her feet and nearly stumbled over several by-standers as she made to answer it. Instinctively, Lucas followed her outside, where she took the call in the driveway.

"Hello!" she bellowed into the phone as though she were still shouting over the music. Lucas had to suppress a snort of laughter.

"Wha-?"

As the conversation continued, her face contorted as she tried to keep her concentration up. "Just switch it off!" she snapped. Then fell silent again as the other person tried to explain something Lucas couldn't even guess at. "Oh, shit!"

"What is it?" he tried to ask, but Ros merely waved him away.

When she did hang up, she looked at him and groaned heavily.

"My bloody burglar alarm's been going off for the last hour," she explained. "I have to go switch the bastard thing off. Bloody policeman can't get in there, can they?"

Lucas, like the rest of them, was already spinning like a child's top. He was discreetly holding on to a low wall to keep himself upright, as it was. "Think I'll come with you, actually," he said. "I think I just hit my peak."

"Is that what they call paralytic these days?" she grinned, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him in close. "Come on then, I'll call the taxi and you get our coats."

By the time Nathan reached home, it was nearing two am. Beth Bailey had provided some much needed support as he hoisted himself out of the back of their shared taxi and managed to half-drag, half-walk him up the garden path. In truth, they were keeping each other upright. When she reached the door, she rang the bell and kept it pressed down for several long moments. She didn't let go until an upstairs light came on and a furious voice bellowed out: "All-fucking-right!"

Nathan, slouched against the wall of the porch let his head roll to the side. "I don't think he's too happy, do you?"

Beth laughed, before turning and stumbling back down the garden path and into the taxi. "See ya!" she called back.

The front door opened, but only by an inch. Through that narrow aperture, Olly looked daggers at him. But Nathan had already set his mind to trying to walk through it anyway. He hit the door, making the chain snap and Olly jump back. A dull pain registered where Nathan's head smacked off the edge of the door.

"Where the hell have you been?" Olly asked, his voice a low South Yorkshire drawl. "I was worried sick about you!"

Speaking of which, Nathan had to launch himself off the doorstep and towards the nearby privet hedge before he threw up everywhere. Olly merely watched and heaved a heavy sigh of indignation. But, once he deemed it safe, he helped Nathan back inside, letting him lean against his shoulder. Once steered into the living room, he was lowered onto his back on the sofa, while Olly went through to the kitchen and returned with a washing up bowl in his hands.

"I suppose those computers you fix decided to hit back tonight before dragging you down the pub?" he asked, rolling his dark eyes. "I don't know what's going on with you, Nathe. But something is. I never see you anymore; you're always so late. Something's changed, and I don't know what it is."

The room was dark, but nicely furnished. Their pet cat was curled up on a dining room chair, where Nathan could see the table was still set for two; only his place remained, untouched wine glass included. The candle in the middle had been lit, burned down low and extinguished in the long hours between his leaving and his return. Slowly, he rolled over to face Olly and proffered slurred apologies. The sadness in the other man's eyes was unmistakable; this new job had been a gift and an opportunity of a lifetime. But now, Nathan could see the cost. Even in this state, he could see what the lies and the subterfuge was doing. He brought one hand up to Olly's face, but succeeded only in drawing attention to his bruised knuckles so pulled away again.

"I still love you, if that means anything," he said, willing his head to stop spinning.

For a brief moment, their eyes met. Blue on black, before falling away to nothing.

"Whatever."

With that, Olly got up and returned to their bed, leaving Nathan there on the sofa. He returned not long after, but only to dump a blanket and pillow on to him. But Nathan no longer even had the energy to arrange his bedding. He let himself fall fast under the pull of unconsciousness. Deep, fast and out like a light. A heavy sleep punctuated by dreams that formed a pallid masquerade in his head. His father was there, furious and raging at him; his mother crying in the kitchen, the sound of her sobbing carried into the living room. His sister, Jasmine, wedging herself between he and his father, forming a human shield as she pleaded with them both to stop and just talk. Just talk it out. The scene shifts and resolves, to Tom Quinn who had a habit of just letting himself into whatever house Nathan was living in at the time. Tom laughs and quotes Philip Larkin to him: "they fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do."

He awakens late the next day; long past two in the afternoon. An early autumn sunshine, still retaining the heat of an Indian Summer is splashed around the living room and he's been sick in the night. Nathan winces, his head pounding and his brain feeling like it's been replaced with a concrete breeze block. He turns to where a glass of water has been left on the side table, with a plain white envelope propped against it; it was addressed to him. Nathan frowns as he takes it, opening it up to find a letter of few words inside: "I'm sorry. I just can't do this anymore." Oliver's signature scrawled underneath that solitary sentence.

With a groan and a heave of the stomach, Nathan collapsed back against the sofa.

* * *

**Thank you again for reading; if you have a moment, reviews would be welcome.**


	3. Nothing Personal

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, and to the Guest reviewers I'm unable to thank in person. Thank you! **

* * *

**Chapter Three: Nothing Personal**

**Cavehill Road, Belfast. February 1976.**

A lone Saracen rounded the corner and began its slow, cumbersome ascent up the Cavehill Road. Through a mist of sleet rain, Harry watched its progress from the top of the hill, safely inside an Army Land Rover, the letter he had been reading set aside. Already, the street had been cordoned off and harassed looking women bellowed at unruly children – more annoyed than afraid. Harry watched them all, wondering exactly when a bomb scare became just another part of daily life. An annoyance to be endured, like getting the kids to school on time or pulling in the laundry before the rain starts to fall. If the device went off all those mothers, their children and everything they owned would be blasted to the moon and back, but still they took their time about it all. War: it was all routine now.

One of the women, brawny armed and red of face, approached Harry's side of the Land Rover. She had her hair in curlers beneath a granny-style scarf on her head; she was probably no more than twenty-eight or twenty-nine, but premature childbearing, civil war and life in general was giving her the look of someone much older. A lit cigarette was transferred from hand to mouth as she thumped on the window, even though she could see that Harry had already noticed her. Supressing a sigh, he opened the door by just a fraction but made no move to get out. Not in that weather and not be given a tongue lashing by a disgruntled local.

"Here son," she lisped at him, cig still in mouth. "When are you'se getting this sorted? My weens aren't long for getting to school and he's melting my head about it. You'se are sat on your arses in those jeeps an doing nothing all day, but for harassing innocent people. Why's it always us? Why aren't you'se all down with them wans on Tiger Bay? What're you'se doing 'ere naw?"

Harry let the diatribe flow over him, while watching that cigarette – still precariously perched in the corner of her mouth – defy the laws of gravity and bounce in time to her angry tirade. The smell of the smoke, always quite repellent to him, had him discreetly reclining further in his seat. After taking a moment to cut through the woman's Belfast accent, he deciphered the actual nature of her complaint. Her kids are late for school; her husband is being a garrulous twat and why is he, Harry Pearce, stationed here on the Cavehill Road and would he not like to torment Protestants for a change? He drew a deep, steadying breath before answering.

"The bomb is here, not Tiger's Bay. I could go to Tiger's Bay, it wouldn't take me five minutes. But then you would get blown up. So I suggest you take your family and yourself to safety. The Church on the Antrim road has opened for the evacuees and is serving hot drinks. Get one."

To his eternal dismay, the woman simply folded her arms across her chest and looked him square in the eye.

"Right, soldier boy, get you on out here and say that to my face."

As far as Harry was concerned, he already had said it to her face. But the argument picking, the recalcitrance even in the face of immense danger was something he was used to. Not one soul in these streets could afford to appear friendly to British Soldiers, lest they be denounced as traitors and be spirited away to some desolate spot along the border and left there with a bullet between their ears. It was nothing personal.

"Please, madam, go to safety on the Antrim Road. People are waiting to assist you and we will diffuse the device as soon as we're left to get on with our job."

The woman's gaze flickered away from him and towards the row of terrace houses alongside which he had parked the Land Rover. Which house did she come from? Harry didn't see; she just materialised from the steady stream of civilians who were already well on their way downhill, towards the Antrim Road. The last of whom was now dragging a loudly protesting seven year old boy, who whined that he wanted to "see stuff explode."

"Youse 'uns are all cowards," said the woman, eyes narrowed dangerously. "Our boys'll sort you out."

Finally, she sloped off with her shoulders hunched, walking in the opposite direction from which she came. That, too, snagged at Harry but he simply retrieved his letter from the dashboard and went to take up where he'd left off. Congratulations, Jane Townsend, now working as a Class Room Assistant. Yes, Jane Townsend, she would love to meet him again. Maybe a drink or two and a meal at a nice restaurant. Who knows what might happen, so long as he doesn't get blown up before then. Because now, the Saracen has come to a rest just before Harry's Land Rover. It was time to do his job and provide cover for the bomb disposal team as they went about their nerve-racking work.

He heard the back door of the Land Rover open, followed by the sounds of his colleague's boots hitting the tarmac. The metallic click of automatic guns being readied in case of an ambush, while nervous RUC men closed the cordons. Harry fetched his own gun and finally slid down from the driver's seat to meet his counterpart in bomb disposal. Those boys were usually barking mad after a few years in the job, but Harry couldn't blame them. He closed the Land Rover door and walked forwards to introduce himself, hand extended.

"Second Lieutenant Harry Peace," he began, just as the man's head exploded.

It all happened so fast that none of them even had time to register the gunshot that came from the rooftops directly behind Harry. They didn't even have time to check properly before being forced to take cover and ready their own weapons. Harry launched himself to the ground behind the Saracen, just as another shot rang out from the opposite side. It smashed into the side of the Saracen, where it became lodged in its thick metal walls. They were in such a frenzied flurry they didn't even bother to take aim before returning fire and suddenly, the air was filled with the explosion of round after round of live ammunition. Aware that they were surrounded by IRA snipers up on rooftops on both sides of the Cavehill Road, they were sitting ducks. Nowhere was safe, so it was a matter of shooting their way out and hoping for the best.

This was no bomb scare; this was an ambush. Phone in a bomb scare; evacuate the area to get the non-combatants safely out of the way and it was game on for a raw, dirty gunfight between the IRA and the Brits. It was fast becoming the Republican movement's modus operandi. That woman was drawing him out, Harry was sure of it. A nice clear headshot to get things started. But now was not the time to dwell on his lucky escape. He wasn't yet out of danger.

Meanwhile, he had managed to belly crawl back to the Land Rover, where his men were returning fire in just about every direction possible. The enemy was hidden behind chimney stacks and free to run along the vast terraces' roofs. There was nothing to divide one roof from another. A bullet fired by the IRA men bounced off the bonnet of the Land Rover just as Harry reached it, forcing him to duck down again before he could get the gunman in sight. But the very second the blast receded, Harry was back up and leaning on the bonnet, the gunman fixed in the sight of his weapon. A silhouetted figure whose face was obscured by a woollen mask. Without even thinking, his figure squeezed the trigger and a split second later the figure on the roof keeled over. He pitched forwards, before falling three stories to the ground. Down, down and down, hitting the concrete path with a nauseating crunch of skull against stone. A fleeting moment of death that transformed the gunman from enemy to human being; a very fleeting moment in which the waste of life sickened even Harry Pearce.

* * *

**London, 2012.**

All was quiet on the Grid and Nathan breathed a small sigh of relief as he passed through the pods. He exchanged a nod and a gruff greeting with Tariq before falling into his chair and booting up his PC. While he waited, he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and withdrew Oliver's derisory 'Dear John' letter and glanced over it again, as though some clue would reveal itself miraculously. Yes, things had been bad since the late nights and the secrecy of his job had kicked in; but six months prior to that the subject of civil partnership had been raised on more than one occasion. What had really changed?

Once the PC was booted up, he reached the MI5 interface and input his username and password. Then he was able to access a search engine in the national database. He typed in Oliver Michael Jones and cursed under his breath at the scores of results it brought up. Who knew that name would be so common. He narrowed it down to one with an exact date of birth, and so his search began in earnest.

Ever since his graduation from Manchester University, over six years previously, he had been skirting the periphery of the espionage world, just beyond the shadows. Flitting between private outfits and slowly being edged through the door of full blown spying. It wasn't what he intended, but even after six years he was still amazed by the sheer level of detail about every single person in Britain was contained within these outfit's databases. The only real difference between MI5 and the others was a veneer of respectability afforded by state officiallity and an air of borrowed glamour lent to it by endless clichéd Cold War novels and exaggerated Hollywood movies. Looking beyond all that surface stuff, Nathan really couldn't tell the difference between any of them.

However, what he was able to find out was that Oliver had used his credit card to purchase flight tickets to the United States and that their car – which Olly had driven off in – had been given a parking ticket. It left him dazed; his hands trembled as he checked the flight. It had left at seven pm the previous evening, a Sunday; Heathrow to the JFK, New York City, where it landed not a second late in the early hours of the morning. Nathan's expression contorted in frustration and confusion. One simply cannot get on a plane and fly to New York on a whim. Visas were needed and, if this was what it seemed, Oliver would have been planning his departure for months in advance.

Quickly gathering his wits, he was about to access information on visas issued, before a sharp voice cut through him.

"Nathan, come with me."

He whirled round to find Ruth Evershed standing over him, her coat still draped over her arms. Not far behind her, a drained looking Harry was unlocking his office door. A chilled sense of some unknown misdemeanour closed over him as he got and up followed her into Harry's office. As though this was some unexpected meeting with the headmaster, Nathan surreptitiously straightened the waistcoat he wore under his suit jacket before fidgeting with the knot of his tie. By the time they got in there, Harry was sat behind his desk with a file open in front of him. It was his personnel file, his mug shot paper clipped in one corner. He always looked like a criminal in those things.

Ruth pulled out a seat at the opposite side of the desk and gestured for him to sit down, before joining Harry. For a few tense moments, they all sat in silence. Ruth's large blue eyes darted between the file and Nathan himself, her expression giving nothing away except an air of amplified seriousness. Not one to willingly draw things out, Nathan himself decided to end the undeclared stand-off.

"Do you mind me asking-"

"Yes, I do," Harry cut over him without looking up from the file.

Unequivocally slapped down, Nathan coloured slightly as he diverted his gaze to his lap. It remained there until an A4 print out was slipped across the desk, right under his nose.

"Care to explain?" asked Harry, perfectly calm.

Nathan took the paper and scanned down a list of phone calls. Listed alongside them was the call duration and the number dialled. It was a number he recognised instantly, but he had no idea he had called it that many times. An all too familiar sense of dismay opened up in him; it was like having a record of missed opportunities thrust in his face. All those times he could have done something, but didn't.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It won't happen again."

On the opposite side of the desk, Harry looked distinctly unimpressed. "That's not an answer."

For a moment, the two of them looked at one another. Harry was rhythmically drumming his fingers against the desktop … waiting … waiting…

"It-it's just someone I know," Nathan stammered. He could feel his private business being forcibly extracted like a bad tooth that just wouldn't let itself go. "It doesn't affect my work here-"

"Then stop bloody well bringing it here," Harry retorted, the patience suddenly gone. "Whoever you're stalking you can do it in your own time. And if I find out you've been using MI5 resources for this, your arse will be out that door so fast you'll be home before your court summons. Do you hear me?"

Stunned by the angry rebuke, Nathan's protest froze on his lips as he looked dumbly back to his boss. But once more, the truth burrowed deeper into his heart and he found himself lost once more. Even if he told the truth, Harry hardly looked like a man who gave a toss and Nathan was not one to expose those kind of feelings simply to be dismissed and under rug swept.

"I hear you," he managed to reply, at length. "But it's not what it seems."

"Well, that's something," Ruth chipped in, over-brightly. "Now you can get ready for the meeting."

Nathan turned towards her, wondering why she was even there. She's Harry's wife, but still only an Analyst. Could this MI5 power couple not function without each other? Ruth looked half Harry's age, so he must have done, at some time. Either way, there was something about Ruth that unnerved him. Those big, doleful eyes that seemed to see right through people, the gaze raking over everything and everyone. It was like she was insinuating herself into everyone's business without even realising she was doing it. Whatever it was about her, he understood himself to be dismissed and he was thankful for it.

* * *

Later that morning, Ruth found the files she was looking for easily. Sean Mallon – an IRA man; Kyle McCracken – a UVF man. Finally, Paul Kendall – a Military Intelligence Officer. The first two files considerably denser and heavier than the third, seeing as Kendall's activities had been so suddenly and mysteriously been cut off some three decades before. Still, she brought them through to the meeting room, where Section D was already assembled, with Harry in his customary place at the head of the table. They had been chatting amongst themselves as she opened the door, but her appearance silenced them as though a switched had been flicked. All eyes turned to her, expectantly.

"Morning all," she greeted them, letting the files drop to Harry's side. "Sean Mallon; Kyle McCracken and Paul Kendall," she announced. Without taking her seat, she continued with the briefing. "Sean Mallon was known to have been active with the Provisional IRA from 1972 onwards, although he may have joined as early as '71. He was imprisoned for membership of an illegal organisation and possession of explosives in 1973 – on the word of a Special Branch Informer – and not released until December 1975. He hasn't been active in paramilitarism since the 1996 cease fire, however. So his threat level is low."

Harry partially raised an arm off the desk, signifying he had something to say. "When he was released from Long Kesh in '75, he personally made it his mission to track down the person who had betrayed him. Which leads us on to this man, Paul Kendall."

"Excuse me a minute," Ros interjected. "But Sean Mallon was the man contacted Reception on Saturday night, wasn't he?"

Harry confirmed that. "More about that in a minute. But, Paul Kendall was a Military Intelligence Officer last seen in the company of Sean Mallon while he was infiltrating the South Armagh cell of the Provisionals. I know, because I was there too."

This revelation made every agent round the table sit up a little straighter. Even Nathan dragged himself out of his silent sulk to look, in not shocked, unpleasantly surprised. Harry took a deep breath and disguised the look of sadness that now clouded his dark green eyes.

"Naturally, we don't have to worry too much about Kendall as a person," he stated, returning his gaze to the team. He looked at each of them in turn, for the first time a slither of doubt penetrated the normally absolute confidence he had in them. Northern Ireland had always been something different; something more vicious. "As Ros has already mentioned, Mallon has tried to contact me. Is it because he has found out I was there that night? Or some other ancient grudge? I don't know, but I want you all to be on the lookout. In his day, he was a ruthless IRA operative and as the old cliché goes, leopards don't change their spots.

Also worth mentioning, Ruth and I had an uninvited guest to our home on Saturday night; as did Ros and I don't believe in coincidences of this nature. Extra reasons to be vigilant."

A murmur of assent rippled round the table as Harry gestured to Ruth to continue. She responded first by opening the file on Kyle McCracken. As Northern Ireland's vociferous First Minister, they were already well aware of that part of his life. This, however, delved into the past, long before he discovered Armani suits and the Old Testament.

"You all know the man's public face," she began, bringing his mug shot up on the smart screen, as she had with Mallon. "He's the leader of the Progressive Loyalists, but before that he was a gunman for the Loyalist Paramilitary group, the Ulster Volunteer Force. He's believed to have joined them in 1972. In the same year he walked into a Catholic owned bookmakers and opened fire, killing three people and injuring five others before being tackled to the ground and pinned down before the Army arrived on the scene. He then went on to serve a fraction of his sentence and released from Long Kesh in January 1976 to the fury of the Nationalists-"

"Is it any wonder?" Nathan cut in, abrasively. Everyone turned to look at him, startled. "What? A Catholic kid back then could just look twice at a British Soldier and be Interned without trial for the rest of his life. A Protestant so-called Loyalist could shoot dead three Catholics like they were dogs in the street and get nothing more than a slap on the wrist! If we're to stop this endless cycle of violence once and for all, then we need to stop pandering to scum like Kyle McCracken."

His outburst was met with stunned silence, broken only by a tremulous Beth. "He has a point, Harry. Not everything the British did was entirely above board."

Harry paid her no heed, instead turned his weary exasperation on to Nathan. "Thank you for that summary on how to achieve world peace, Mister Fraser. Next time I want something highly complex and convoluted to be radically over-simplified to the point where a village idiot can understand it, I'll come to you."

Ruth watched this exchange, listening carefully while her mind got to work on how to reach some form of resolution. "In fact, Nathan, you can tell First Minister McCracken all that yourself, while you're escorting him to Dublin to meet with the Irish Prime Minister."

She flashed him a beatific smile as his expression froze into scandalised horror. Harry, realising that Ruth was tactically removing an unknown quantity from their ranks for a few days, wholeheartedly endorsed her suggestion. Until he proved himself, he would be kept at arm's length, lest he should do any real damage to the service.

* * *

Ros grinned as she drove herself and Lucas to the airport, late that afternoon. "Poor Nathan!"

Lucas laughed. "He really should've known better though. I mean, if Harry wanted to hear his opinion, he would have asked for it."

Outside their car, it was another fine day in the last gasp of the dying summer. The air was crisp and clean, not too hot and not yet cold – although Ros knew it wouldn't be long. It was almost enough to inject a small shot of enthusiasm and optimism into her world. But still, despite it all, the spectres of the impending mission in Ireland still drew closer, closing in on her and her team. On top of that, Harry's mood had been incendiary. Regardless of what Lucas said, the way their boss had rounded on Nathan was not entirely in character. He'd been questioned before, without feeling the need to gorge himself on the blood of the questioner.

She glanced in the rear view mirror, where Harry and Ruth were following them. Behind them, Tariq and Nathan had travelled with Beth in her car. It was supposed to be Nathan driving them but, as luck would have it, Nathan had apologised profusely and claimed his car had been stolen over the weekend.

Within a few hours, they would all be getting off a plane at the George Best Airport in Belfast. Ros' thoughts drifted over to Jo Portman, who had taken her annual leave – as well as herself – to the tropics for a few weeks. Belfast, sadly, couldn't quite compare.

"Lucky cow," whispered Ros.

Lucas snorted laughter. "You're not thinking of Jo again, are you?"

To which Ros replied: "I bet she gets sunstroke."

"Bet, or hope?" he grinned.

Ros chose to ignore that.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading. If you have a minute, a review would be much appreciated.**


	4. Hillsborough

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Just a reminder that my OCs are all purely fictional, even if they exist within a framework that is real and belong to groups that were real.

**Northern Ireland is a land of many initials. Here's a few of them:**

**OFMDFM – Office of First Minister and Deputy First Minister**

**PSNI – Police Service of Northern Ireland**

**RUC – Royal Ulster Constabulary (now defunct)**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Hillsborough**

As the aircraft began its descent into Belfast's George Best Airport, Harry couldn't escape the feeling he was stepping back into a Gladiator's arena. His gaze slid sideways, towards the small window out of which the province could now be seen. From that altitude, it really was the Emerald Isle: vast expanses of green fields stretching out in all directions, punctuated by the large blue blimp of Lough Neagh and ringed by swelling mountains. A restless sea battered the rugged northern coastlines, white peaked waves visible even from up high. Soon, the plane passed over land, banking left to make the dizzyingly sharp turn onto the airstrip. Then, the grey urban sprawl of Belfast slipped into view seemingly out of nowhere, before rushing up to meet them as the plane made its smooth downward journey.

Beside him, sat next to the window, was Ruth. She was leaning to the left, watching as the city came into view. Seemingly captivated and silent, she made no attempt at conversation before the plane's wheels bumped against the tarmac and her view was limited to only the grey-green blur of the runway. The aircraft draws to a halt and Harry feels like he's travelled back in time.

"The last time I saw Belfast was from the window of a chinook helicopter," he told Ruth. "You could actually see the smoke billowing out of the city centre from the burning wreckage of a bombed out building."

But it was as they were leaving – always the best view of Belfast. Ruth turned to look at him and placed one hand on his arm, where it was propped against the armrest. She wore the expression of a barefoot child treading through a nest of nettles.

"You…you never talk about it," she stammered. "Why-"

"There's really nothing to say," he lied.

Luckily, their conversation was cut short as they were ushered quickly off the plane and through the VIP arrival area, to where cars and their luggage was already waiting for them. Compared to his last visit, these were extravagant luxuries courtesy of the Office of First Minister and Deputy First Minister. It brought a wry smile to Harry's face when he recalled that the two men who filled those high offices of state, not so long ago, wanted him and his kind dead. The feeling had been mutual.

"Did you remember to bring those files?" he asked as they climbed into the back of their limo.

"Of course," replied Ruth, rolling her eyes. "You only reminded me every ten minutes."

Before the car pulled out onto the Sydenham bypass bound for Hillsborough Castle, Harry looked back at the airport. What had once been an iron bound, bomb proof fortress manned by British Army officers and RUC armed to the teeth; is now an ornate glass fronted building named after Ireland's most notoriously self-destructive footballer. But as the car rolled out onto the road, the airport gave way to the docklands of East Belfast, where the twin cranes of Harland and Wolff continued to dominate the skyline. Ruth gasped excitedly as the recognition hit instantly, before gushing a stream of Titanic related babble that Harry hadn't the heart to even pretend to listen to. In the blink of an eye they had passed from a genius sportsman who had drank himself to death, to a place made famous for building an unsinkable ship that was gulped down by the waves of the Atlantic Ocean on its maiden voyage. That, right there, was Northern Ireland all wrapped up in one beautiful metaphor.

"I wish I was an iceberg," he muttered darkly. "Then I could sink this whole place."

Ruth glanced over at him apologetically. "It's not that simple, Harry. Even taking continental drift in to account, the force of impact-"

"Joke, Ruth," he sighed, heavily. "It was a joke."

Ruth grinned. "Oh, I thought you were suggesting a permanent solution to the Irish Question there."

Harry made a brave attempt at laughter. But he enjoyed seeing the smile on her face. Whenever she did it, she looked like the nerdy kid at school whose punchlines went over everyone else's heads and she was the only one who got it. An awkward and gawky, yet ultimately endearing feature of her. Covering her hand with his own, he made an effort to shift some of the weight that accumulated in his mind, to make himself lighter. An endeavour made easier by the fact that they didn't actually go into Belfast itself, but skirted the eastern lip of the city before heading into the countryside.

The route took them through the foothills of the Mountains of Mourne, where they were afforded spectacular views of not just Ulster itself, but over the sea to Scotland and the tiny Isle of Man. Once, even these mountains were scarred by British Army watchtowers and installations, checkpoints on every bend in the road. Helipads and tanks; hulking Saracens rolling through the tranquil stillness and tearing up the local beauty. Now it was gone. Not even a fence, nor stray piece of barbed wire remained to tell of what once happened here. Harry looked out of the windows again, and realised he was seeing it for the first time.

* * *

Ros and Lucas emerged from the back of their own car and thanked the driver. The air was clean, with a brisk wind bearing the first bite of winter on its restless current sweeping up around them. Rural, but not so far from the nearest town, also called Hillsborough. Belfast was thirty miles north, and still visible at this altitude. The Castle itself was easily as fine as any other in Europe, with lawns wide and immaculately manicured. Golf ranges, tennis courts and even a vast lake all made up the locale. Ros took it all in expressionlessly; mentally weighing up every brick and every petal in the gardens.

"I think I could get used to this," she eventually said. "Shame about the hundreds of others who'll be getting in our way soon."

The talks weren't due to start for another two days, but they needed to work fast if they were to get every room in the place bugged before Wednesday. Then they needed to peg the risk level from about twenty different armed groups that all seemed to be active at present. That was before they safely transported the First Minister to Dublin and back, before stopping any local fighters of freedom from slotting any of the main players and plunging the province back into war.

"If we're lucky," said Lucas, taking her hand in his own. "There might be some bugs left over from the last summit that was held here."

Ros made a face. "They'll all need checking and updating. Best install news ones, if you ask me. But Tariq's bound to have some ideas."

Somewhere, at the darkest and yet most optimistic part of Ros' mind, she had hoped to at least give their first day or two in Northern Ireland the veneer of a real holiday. She had hoped that being physically unable to respond to an emergency summons to Thames House, and the Grid left far behind her, it might feel like a break. But it taken all of two minutes after their arrival for work to rear its nebulous head. They made their way inside, hand in hand and still managing to raise a smile, to find the others already in there. Nathan was sat on his suitcase in a corner of the lobby, despite their being chairs available, and texting someone furiously. Beth was leaning against the Reception desk and chatting to Ruth, while Harry grew argumentative with a man in uniform. In that instant, even the empty façade of this being a holiday crumbled into dust.

Beth's gaze jumped from Ruth to Ros, whence she proceeded to wave and actually smile. An act that set Ros' teeth on edge, but through which she endured with grace.

"Here they are," she said, more to Ruth than to Ros and Lucas. "Your room's sorted already, just check in and get your keys."

Lucas nodded his thanks as they both approached the Reception desk, where they were confronted by a woman so advanced in age Ros became fearful she was about to drop dead. But the old girl had sharp eyes that fixed them both in an uncompromising glare over gold rimmed spectacles.

"Mr and Mrs North, I assume?"

Ros and Lucas exchanged a glance, both quietly puzzled over the heavy emphasis on the 'Mrs'. Meanwhile, the old girl picked up a set of keys from behind the desk.

"Er, no," replied Lucas, magnanimously. "I'm Mr North and this is Ms Myers."

Discreetly, the keys were replaced. "Just you hang on a minute."

In the background, Harry continued his heated discussion with the Security Guard while Ruth became over involved in her conversation with Beth. Nathan had taken to pacing the floor while engaged in an argument with someone over the phone about Chairman Mao. "No, no, don't give him that," he was insisting, "it gives him diarrhoea! Just give him the dry food."

"What the-?" Lucas began, casting an askance glance at the new boy.

Everyone else had done the same. It took Nathan a moment to notice the fact that he'd become the centre of attention, to which he responded by flushing and covering his mobile. "It's my cat," he clarified, giving an apologetic shrug. "Chairman Meow. He hates catteries."

He immediately returned to the conversation, then took it outside. Leaving Beth to ask them why Nathan's partner wasn't looking after the cat.

"Who cares?" replied Ros, supreme indifference enhanced with a shrug.

Lucas tried to disguise his laugh as a cough. "I applaud his choice of cat name, though."

Ros' further involvement in the conversation was cut off as the Reception lady handed her a set of keys with instructions on how to find their room. It was already evening and no one would be doing anything else that day besides dinner and a few drinks in the bar. But Ros and Lucas already had other ideas about how to fill the empty hours. They hurriedly left the scene and jabbed the button on every elevator on the ground floor before hauling their suitcases into the first that opened to admit them. Without even taking a proper look around at their plush new surroundings, they headed straight for their room. Neither of them had expected to be put up in the presidential suites, or anything like as a grand as that which the local politicians would be holed up in over the next week. But Ros found herself admitting that one of those double Jacuzzis would be a good start.

When they reached their door on the fourth floor, they found it tucked discreetly round the corner opposite what looked like a store cupboard used by the cleaners. But they paid it no heed as they kissed each other deeply before Lucas could even get the key in the door. He had to reach around her as they carried on engaging in their vertical wrestling match in the doorway. After a lot of fumbling and blind jabbing at the door, he got the door unlocked and, still entwined in each other's limbs, they both almost tumbled over as the door gave way behind Ros. She threw her arms around his neck to steady herself, but almost brought him down on top of her, so he grabbed for the wall and just about prevented a disaster.

Then he got his first look at the bedroom and froze, turning his face away from Ros'.

"Oh, shit!" he groaned.

Suddenly anxious, Ros twisted her own head so she could see over his shoulder, to where he was looking. Slowly extricating herself from him, she looked at the two tiny, narrow single beds set six feet apart and almost burst out laughing. But the most obvious solution prevented any serious outburst of temper.

"Just push them together and to hell with miss prissy pants down there," she huffed, getting ready to give the bed closest to her a quick shove. But she pushed as hard as she could and the frame refused to budge an inch, causing Ros to almost fall over herself to the floor, banging her knee against the polished wood floor. With a high curse, she pulled up the over-hanging counterpane to reveal bed legs bolted to the floor. She glared at then mutinously, their romantic moment spoiled. "You have got to be kidding me!"

Still on her hands and knees, Ros looked up at Lucas who was leaning casually against a tall wooden wardrobe, hands in pockets and a knowing smirk on his face. "Now you know how I felt growing up in a God fearing Protestant household!"

* * *

Ruth moved slowly through the castle, one hand brushing delicately against the gallery walls. Long, wide and airy, the gallery walls were adorned with ancient portraits of former Governors and earls of Ulster, dating back to an era that filled her dizziest dreams. A royal coat of arms took up the far end of the gallery, overhead hung ornate crystal chandeliers; light enhanced with large bay windows that looked out over the extensive grounds of the castle. But she was looking up, the points of light from the chandeliers reflected in her eyes, open wide as saucers as she studied the decorative lattice work on the ceiling. She wanted to touch it; to breathe in its heady scent of history, and epochs and times gone by in which the day she found herself had been inevitably shaped. From the Medieval part of the castle, she stepped through a connecting passageway and found herself in the Renaissance part, with its Italianate interiors and ostentatious glitz. From the Renaissance, to the even gaudier Baroque.

Not long after dining, she had lost Harry. Last she saw him he was trying to figure out directions to the nearest bar, deaf to her pleas for a tour of the castle. "But Harry, we'll find a bar while we're on the bloody tour!" So panicked at the prospect of a night without whiskey, he had been made blind to common sense. She was here, on her own with just a leaflet collected from the stuffy Receptionist to guide her. Alone, that was, until her phone rang. She sighed and reached into her handbag to answer it before the caller rang off. The number was unrecognised, causing Ruth's anticipation to rise a little as she jabbed the answer button. She stepped into a nearby window bay to take the call, while looking out over the darkening grounds where the crescent moon reflected in the rippling surface of the lake outside.

"Hello, Rachel Evans speaking."

A moment's pause, followed by a man's confused 'er-ing'.

"Er, Jim Fraser here. I heard someone on this number was trying to reach me?"

Jim Fraser spoke with a soft, lilting Southern Welsh accent that made her think of Dylan Thomas. On top of all the Historical sight-seeing, it was almost too much. But Ruth pulled herself together and kept her tone casual.

"Yes, Mister Fraser, I'm from Human Resources and I believe we have your son working for us," she explained, failing to name any organisation or company. For all she knew, Nathan could have told his father something entirely different, if they ever spoke at all which was something she couldn't rule out. "I just need to confirm that."

"Oh … Nathan, is it? Nathan Charles Fraser? I doubt he wants you contacting me. Anyway, he could be working for the Russians in Timbuktu for all I know."

Ruth's brow creased into a frown at the throwaway line, but the wording struck her. Until the sound of light laughter made her realise it really was just a throwaway line.

"It's nothing like that, I promise," she replied. "We only check just in case we need to contact next of kin in the event of an emergency, anyway. That's all I needed to know Mr Fraser; thank you for your time."

The call ended and Ruth slipped the mobile back into her handbag. Her impromptu tour had been forgotten already, but she remained standing in the window bay where she carried on looking out over the gardens for several minutes.

When she did return to their room, situated at the rear of the castle in the old Medieval building, she found Harry nursing a whiskey in an armchair. Predictably. At least his Knighthood guaranteed they got one of the nice rooms. The other agents had been stashed away in little more than storage cupboards, from what she had heard from a highly disgruntled Beth.

"You know that number Nathan keeps ringing?" she asked, purely rhetorically. "Well, it's his parents."

Harry set the whiskey glass down on a side table and made room for her on the plush armchair. "So, it really is just personal then?"

"Looks that way," she concurred, getting settled beside him. "But why make silent phone calls to your own parents? And Jim said the strangest of thing-"

"Ruth!" Harry cut her off, giving her shoulders a squeeze. "It is personal, which means we're leaving them to sort it out alone, doesn't it?"

Taking the hint, Ruth drew a deep breath. "Yes Harry."

Harry nodded. "This is to be filed under 'None of Our Bloody Business,' isn't it?"

"Of course," she dutifully answered. "I was just curious, that's all."

Silent phone calls could have been a signal for anything. Ring a person, wait a few moments, then hang up. The length of the silent call itself was usually the encoded message. You couldn't be too careful in their game. But Harry was right, this clearly wasn't a matter for MI5, despite her niggling doubts. "But don't you think Nathan's made it our business-"

"No, I don't!" Harry retorted, cutting her off again. "We're about to spend a week sorting out Northern Ireland. Do you think we really need some convoluted family squabble piling in on top of that?"

Harry extricated himself from her, hauled himself out of the chair and crossed the room to where large French windows opened onto a balcony that overlooked the same lake Ruth had seen earlier that day. But he didn't go out, he remained with his back to her silently huffing away to himself. Ruth sighed heavily, letting her head fall back against the rest, pissed off because now he was pissed off. A mutual sharing of pissed-off-ness. Only the thought of soon trying out their four poster, canopied bed cheered her up. It was the sort of thing fairy-princesses spent the night in. A little on the excessive side for everyday use, but great to try out and be able to say you've actually done it and bring you one step closer to being a bit like the Queen. All courtesy of OFMDFM. Already she was thinking of what knick-knacks she was going to lift as a souvenir and cursed the smoking ban which meant ashtrays were no longer a viable option.

"I'm sorry," she said, addressing his back still. "I really didn't mean to interfere, Harry. All I wanted to do was check."

"It's not that," replied Harry, turning sharply to face her again. "There's something else, actually. Something I think we do need to look at."

Thinking he'd been annoyed at her, he was actually annoyed at a problem clearly mushrooming into something greater. She sat up in the armchair, giving him a silent nod to continue while worrying about bugs that may have been planted in the room before they arrived.

"The night Sean Mallon tried to contact me was the same night we had our 'visitor' at home, right?" he asked.

Ruth was hardly likely to forget. She could still see the man's face, hidden behind a distorted balaclava, even now. "The same night Ros also had an uninvited guest at her house?"

"Yes. And also, it might interest you to know, the same night Nathan's partner vanished without trace."

Ros was not present in her home at the time of the intruder's attempted break in, but the alarms had all been triggered and the police arrived at the scene shortly before she did. It was two hours after their guest had left, more than enough time to travel between the two addresses. But Ruth had had no idea about Nathan's partner. Nathan's private life, for reasons that were completely understandable, was exactly that: private.

"Beth was telling me," he explained, before she could even accuse him of interfering. "She was wondering why the partner couldn't take care of the cat and Nathan mentioned the, er, incident. Beth met him, the partner that is, while taking Nathan home after the Britain First Op. She saw the man herself, and said he was annoyed because of the state Nathan had gotten himself into, but not excessively so."

"What time was that at?" asked Ruth.

"About two am, by Beth's reckoning. I believe she'd had a few too many herself. Well, they all did."

Ruth worked it out in her head. "So, the mystery man turned up at ours at ten. By midnight, he had turned up at Ros'. Then two am, to Nathan's. No alarms triggered because both men were in. No, wait, it would have triggered an alarm anyway, at that hour of the morning. And we don't know what time Nathan's partner left, do we? We don't even know the man's name. Harry, this could be exactly what it looks like: a broken down relationship."

Harry shrugged. "Of course. I agree. But let's keep in mind the timing and the day it happened."

Still unconvinced, Ruth still stored the information in the reserves of her memory. "But why take the partner and not Nathan?"

Before she even finished the question, she had answered it. But still, she let Harry do the honours while she groaned audibly.

"Easy. Mistaken identity. Mr Anonymous perhaps doesn't realise MI5 has gay people too and takes the first man to walk out of that house. Or, it could even be deliberate and there's a ransom note waiting on Nathan's desk back at the Grid right now. At this stage, it's impossible to say. And then there's the third element in all this. Sean Mallon himself."

That name cropped up time and time again, but Harry refused to discuss him in any great detail. Now, Ruth decided she wasn't letting Harry get away with it any longer. She wanted the truth.

"Harry, who is he? Was he an old asset?"

"We wish!" he guffawed in response. "Myself and countless others tried to turn him, to no avail. He was on the IRA's ruling Army Council, you know."

The Provisional IRA's Army Council was a group of no more than eighteen men and women who together controlled every operation, every mission and every hit the IRA had ever performed. The faces and names had changed over the years as some retired, others discovered a love of politics and others were killed in action or arrested. But the function remained the same. Deadly; efficient; impenetrable. Only they knew what the next move would be and their lips were firmly sealed to the outside world.

"So what does he want from you now?" she asked. "He's never talked before, so what's going on, Harry?"

Harry finally move from the French Windows and crossed the room, to where a mini bar was set up nearby. From inside, he produced the whiskey bottle he had earlier and held it up for her to see.

"Fine. I'll tell you," he replied. "But you might want to consider this, first."

Sensing she would be needing it, Ruth nodded. "Thanks, Harry."

* * *

Thanks again for reading. If you have a minute, reviews would be welcome.


	5. The 1000 Year Itch

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it really means a lot.**

**Diarmait Mac Murchadha can be, and often is, anglicised to Dermot MacMurrough. I have opted to use the Irish version of his name.**

* * *

**Chapter Five: The 1000 Year Itch**

Where exactly did one begin with Northern Ireland? It was a question Harry didn't give himself long to ponder as he poured out two healthy measures of whiskey and nudged one over to Ruth. He held his own glass up the light, watching the liquid inside shine amber as he thought it all over. One could begin the best part of a millennia ago, when Ireland was divided up into four separate Kingdoms: Ulster in the North; Connaught in the West; Leinster in the East and Munster in the South. Back then, a succession crisis developed in Leinster where King Diarmait Mac Murchadha was going to absurd and highly illegal lengths to secure his realm. All four Kings met on Mount Tara to hammer it out between themselves. It was decided an outside arbitrator would be needed and Mac Murchadha selected King Henry II of England. It was a decision he would later regret.

Luckily for Harry, Ruth was better versed in all the ancient history than he was. She looked back at him with a smile on her face. "He was a Frenchman, you know. Henry II. Do you see the bloody French in here now trying to sort this out?"

Sadly, he was also the King of England and it was for England that Ireland was subjugated, all those centuries ago. An act completed on a bitter morning in November, 1171. The bodies of the deposed Kings went to join their forebears deep beneath Mount Tara, now long buried and forgotten by history. A baton of enmity passed from generation to generation. Now, that metaphorical baton was partially in the hands of Harry Pearce, in November, 2012.

That was what wore Harry down in Ireland. It was a conflict so old, so rooted in the ancient past, that no matter what he did it made no difference. He could have all the operatives and agents in the world, working alongside the most experienced soldiers, and they wouldn't make the blindest bit of difference. The old hatreds, the old prejudices, would continue unabated. The more they struck against the IRA, the stronger the IRA became. Because no matter what anyone said, no matter how it was spun, the fuse on every bomb that exploded was lit on that frigid November morning, in 1171. No one can win against a legacy like that.

To emphasise the positive, Harry at least conceded that the Irish Republic had been settled. One final act of rebellion when the central post office in Dublin was seized by Irish Republicans during Easter, 1916. The leaders were executed and martyrs were born in their stead. Civil War broke out, brought only to an end when the Anglo-Irish Treaty was brokered by a veteran of the Easter Rising, Michael Collins. The treaty proposed home rule for Ireland, but with the exception of Ulster. Collins was assassinated for his 'betrayal' of Irish Independence, allegedly on the order of his former comrade, Eamon De Valera. Then came the war of Independence, fought between two rival groups of Republicans: pro and anti-treaty. The pro-treaty Republicans won, and Ireland was duly divided. Ulster came into being, born into a tinder dry peace but with the timer already ticking downwards. Another war just waiting to happen.

"You can see why it's rather demoralising, can't you?" asked Harry, of Ruth.

For all it was worth, Ruth was patient. "You're behaving as though everyone's expecting you, personally, to end every hostility and solve every problem."

They had taken their drinks over to the large, four poster bed and thrown themselves like two children onto the mattress; curious about how bouncy it was. Finding it satisfactorily bouncy, they had remained there while they talked and raked over the ashes of Irish History between them. Meanwhile, Ruth continued:

"Leave all the history to the politicians and focus on your actual job," she stressed. "All you have to do is make sure no one takes a shot at any of the politicians and no bombs go off in the vicinity while they're here."

Harry sighed deeply. "I think you're wrong. I don't think there can ever be peace until we fully understand what happened here and why. Otherwise, we're tackling the symptoms of the Irish problem while leaving the causes unchecked."

Lying back against a bank of pillows, Ruth gently brought up one hand and placed it roughly where his hairline used to be. He could feel the tips of the fingers trailing slowly down the side of his face, and see the worry in her eyes. It was in her soft frown and loaded silence. He could see her point, as well. It was for the politicians to understand the deeper, wider context of the conflict. But their consistent failure to do just that was what led him and his team to keep coming back here and risking their necks.

"I feel like you're skirting around the issue," she said, softly. "I asked you about two men specifically, and you answer with all this stuff stretching back over the centuries. From Henry II, to the Peep-o-day Boys. Wolf Tone and the Irish Republican Brotherhood; King William of Orange and Oliver Cromwell. A famine that wiped out millions of innocent lives, while Queen Victoria sat on her fat arse and did diddly-squat to help. The Protestant Plantations and the Corn Laws. It was all very sad, Harry, but it's too damn late to fix it now. It's done. We need to help them draw a line under all that and move forward. The people here, they're crying out to be free not from one nation or another, but free from their own history. That's what I don't think you understand. All the times you've been here, you've been surrounded by the minority who want to keep the hatred alive. You haven't seen the silent majority who just want to live in peace."

Harry sat up on the bed, pushing away from her as he reached for his drink.

"You're saying my experiences here have clouded my judgement?" he asked, sharply. "If the silent majority want peace so badly, why are they silent?"

"Maybe they aren't. Maybe, their voices are being drowned out by the sound of exploding bombs and gun fights breaking out outside their front doors," she retorted. "And let's not forget the Irish History Experts pontificating about nine-hundred years of oppression at the drop of a hat."

Harry drew a deep breath and relaxed his tensing shoulders. He knew she was right and he knew he had skirted around the issue of Sean Mallon and Paul Kendall. But his understanding of Ireland, this beautiful and broken country, had always been opaque. Like the solution was hiding behind a veil, just out of everyone's reach. When he was on foot patrol round Belfast, he used to see an old saying spray painted on the walls and now, he had to admit, it may have been right: "Ireland unfree will never be at peace."

* * *

Silence. Silence broken by the restricted shuffling and kicking out of bed sheets. Lucas knew that if he tried to move his left arm, he would tighten the unintended headlock he had Ros in. If he moved his right arm, he'd upset the balance and come crashing out of the narrow bed they'd forced themselves into, bringing her down too. The other major problem was that Ros couldn't breathe. He had his arm positioned around her in such a way that her face had been pushed into his armpit, while their limbs were wrapped around each other, holding each other in place. The only way Ros could breathe properly was by stretching her neck right back and twisting her head round so it was propped painfully against his chest.

"Well, it's certainly brought us closer together," he said, trying to accentuate the positive.

Ros tried to raise a grin. "Any closer and we'll be spending the rest of our lives as Siamese twins. We'll just merge into one another."

She had one of her legs braced against the floor, letting a chill draught penetrate the sheets and bringing them both out in gooseflesh. Lucas tried to budge over a little more. Within the frame work of the bed, even an inch would be something. But the moment he moved, he felt his own bare arse inching perilously close over the edge, threatening to upend his centre point of gravity. He was about to make a suggestion, when Ros chipped in with her own.

"Just hold still a moment," she said, slowly releasing her arms from around his torso.

The end came swiftly. It was like bonds had been slashed and they both simultaneously rolled in opposite directions off the bed, propelled by some unseen force. Followed a moment later by a dual muffled thump as they hit the ground cursing. The bed sheets, wrestled between them as they fell, almost torn down the middle.

"We could try pulling the mattresses off the frames, you know," Lucas suggested, still lying flat on the floor.

"As long as they haven't been nail-gunned in place."

Tentatively, Lucas reached out one hand and gave the mattress a shove. It juddered, but moved freely. A sigh of relief sounded from them both.

"We could have just done this an hour ago, you know," Ros pointed out from the opposite side of the bed.

Lucas sat up, acutely aware of the fact that he was naked in a room that was probably rigged to the rafters with hidden cameras. Ros was in much the same state. It would certainly give the local prudes something to get their piss in a froth about. "We did make things rather more complicated than they needed to be," he ceded. "Ah well, when in Rome and all that."

* * *

It was nearing one in the morning. Harry had just poured them another whiskey before they withdrew outside, through the French patio doors. Outside, there was little to see beyond the spotlights illuminating the castle walls. But a pale moon hung in the star-strewn sky, stretching out over the Co Down countryside, the peaks of the silent Mournes just visible as a rolling darkened mass against the horizon. They came to a rest at the balcony, a concrete ornate affair that overlooked the gardens. Ruth set her glass down on the edge, before turning to Harry, standing in a pool of orange light spilling in from their room. He was looking south, towards the mountains, and gestured with his glass holding hand.

"Follow these roads, and you'll get to a place called Crossmaglen," he explained. "It's not even a town. Just a street, with a few shops and a few pubs. The rest is all farmlands and hills."

"I've heard of it," replied Ruth. "It's South Armagh, isn't it? The place they all called Bandit Country."

Harry laughed, giving a nod of his head. "That's the one."

He remembered once, driving along the narrow country lanes of South Armagh and reaching a fork in the road. The regular street sign had been replaced with one featuring a silhouette of a man bearing a machine gun. The caption beneath read: "Sniper at Work." That was the South Armagh Harry remembered.

"The man in charge of the South Armagh Provisional IRA at that time was Sean Mallon," he began. "In January 1976, he had just been released from Long Kesh Internment Camp. You won't remember Long Kesh; the inmates burned it down and the Maze Prison was built in its place. But back then it was still Long Kesh. Anyway, Mallon was out, but he knew the only reason he ended up in there in the first place was because of an informer within the South Armagh IRA itself. Now, there was no informer. There was a Military Intelligence Officer actually infiltrating them, but of course Mallon didn't know that. He thought it was just a regular Tout who'd been turned by Special Branch."

He paused there, making sure that Ruth was following. "The Military Intelligence Officer was Paul Kendall?"

Harry nodded. "He was still working undercover by the time Mallon was released, which was worrying for us all. However, he was … how can I put it? He was taking bigger and bigger risks all the time, trying to snare as many Provos as he could. We tried to pull him out, but we couldn't do that without blowing the Op wide open and losing a valuable source of information in South Armagh. So we left it, at his insistence."

When a natural lull opened in their discussion, Ruth found herself building up the scenario in her head.

"The Provisionals operated in cells of no more than ten to fifteen people," she said, pointing where things were going pear-shaped. "So if Mallon knew he had been touted, then he knew it would have been one of those fifteen-"

"And, naturally, Kendall was one of the fifteen," Harry finished off for her. "Now, I personally, received information that Mallon had deduced who it was and was going to 'out' them in a showdown in the Crossmaglen Republican Club that night. They would hold a show trial, there and then, and when inevitably found guilty they'd be taken away and shot. It happened all the time and paranoia was rife in the seventies and eighties."

Again, Harry paused as he collected his memories. After so many years, so many more traumas and a lifetime lived since that night, it was harder than he thought it would be. As with so many things in his career, it tormented him and seemed to grow in the tormenting. Even he didn't know whether he was still a credible witness.

"I was stationed in Belfast at the time, so I got in the car and drove down to make sure he got out of there okay. But I took a wrong turn. Missed the signs for Crossmaglen and ended up in Co. Monaghan, just over the border on the Irish side. I didn't even realise until I saw the street signs in Irish Gaelic. The weather was atrocious, and the car broke down as soon as I made it back. Had to run the rest of the way. I got to the pub where the show trial was being held, but I was too late. They were already in there. I had to wait it out, but Kendall came outside. I have no idea how he knew I was there. He came out and he spoke to me. Told me to bugger off back to Belfast, if I remember rightly. He went back inside; ten minutes later, a single gunshot. People left. I remember seeing Sean Mallon leaving, arm in arm with a girl wearing a bright blue coat and he was disarming the handgun, even as he left. When I managed to get inside, there was no body, just blood leading to a side door and out into the snow outside. No one's seen Paul Kendall since."

Harry fell silent, just as a small wind blew in from the gardens. Ruth shivered, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as it faded away. Meanwhile, she mulled over what Harry had told her. He was bloody lucky the IRA didn't know he was there. But it still struck her as odd that Kendall did. In an age before mobile phones, it would have been nigh on impossible. Kendall was undercover, so off grid until it was safe to make contact with his superiors.

"It could have been a coincidence that he came out not long after you arrived," she said. Initially, she thought he'd gone out for a smoke, but it was decades before the smoking ban, as well as mobiles. "Maybe he was coming out at regular intervals to look for you?"

Harry shrugged. "How did he know I was on my way at all? We hadn't been able to reach him; that's why I was down there in the first place. It was freezing, Ruth, I was up to my knees in snow. There was no logical reason for him to be out there at all. Then, where did his body go?"

"Harry, fifteen people were taken by the IRA and never seen again," she pointed out. "One woman was taken from the midst of her family and never seen again. Another was taken from his workplace; another bundled off the streets. There was one poor sod that no one even knew about until his body was accidentally recovered while looking for someone else entirely."

The searches had been intermittent. Occasionally, a convoy of diggers and bulldozers would be despatched for the bleak, rural border wildernesses that formed the hinterland between the Irish Republic and Ulster. Usually, it was when some aging Republican suddenly suffered a fit of conscience and decided to reveal some information about where the bodies lay. Invariably, the digs found nothing, leading Harry to wonder whether they were punishing the families left behind. Did they get some sick kick out of it? Did they just like toying with the British Government, and these lost souls were merely another pawn in their game? Then, one by one, human remains finally began to emerge from the peat bogs of Dundalk and Monaghan. Information held true, and some of the victims were – after almost thirty years – returned to their families for a Christian burial. For the rest, only hope remained.

"If Kendall is found when the search begins again…" Harry began, but let the sentence hang, unfinished.

Harry directed his gaze towards the Mournes, to where the beacons once blazed to show Protestant King William of Orange the way to the Boyne. The place where the Protestant Dutchman soundly defeated the Catholic Englishman, King James on the 12th July, 1690. The Orangemen identified by their bright orange sashes, bringing into being that other uniquely Northern Irish tribe, the Orangeman. Until this day, the eleventh night bonfires raged across the province. Harry had seen them, tall as tower blocks; felt the blast of their heat as the infernos blazed against the night sky and choking the cities and towns in thick palls of smoke. Back in the seventies, they used to use rubber tyres, adding dangerous toxins to their noxious, anti-Catholic bigotry. Many Protestant communities were now being offered cash incentives to stop burning effigies of the Pope and Irish tricolours on their lakes of fire. But their hatred means more to them than mere money. And all that before they even got to the actual anniversary of the battle itself; when hordes of drumming Orangemen go marching through Catholic neighbourhoods just to drive the point of their domination home. That was when the real fun began!

The old song ran through Harry's head: "and it's on the twelfth I like to wear, the sash my father wore…" It was November, however. The Parades were done for the year and Harry was almost giddy with relief. But no doubt, that ever delicate issue of parade routes would raise its ugly orange head during the upcoming talks.

That was the problem with Northern Ireland. You thought you knew it; you thought you had the gist of it. But it's deeper; more complex, more entrenched than one mere lifetime can take to unwind. It is a minefield of nationality, religion, culture and history. All it took to set it all off again was one false step. Harry, unlike King Billy, didn't even have a few beacons to light the way.

* * *

Ollie had his back to Nathan while he poured wine into a glittering chalice. It was pure gold, with a broad sweeping base, ornately carved. Like the ones the priests used in Holy Communion. The wine was a rich red so deep it was almost purple and matched the patterned rubies on the cup of the chalice. It was full to brimming when Ollie set the wine decanter back down on the side board. Then, a small sleight of hand that Nathan barely caught as something else was sprinkled into the wine.

"I thought you were in New York?" he wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat.

Olly was home, and that was all that mattered to him. He turned to Nathan with a gentle smile, his black eyes shining in the reflected light of altar candles burning nearby. Candles for the dead; to free their souls from Purgatory. He bore the communion cup to Nathan's lips. Close up, he could see that the rubies on the communion chalice were in the shape of the red hand of Ulster. Beneath that, an engraving bore the motto of the Ulster Defence Association: 'Quis Separabit'. Nathan read it in its Latin form, translating roughly in his head: who will separate us? How strangely ecumenical?

"Drink it," said Olly, tipping the wine between Nathan's lips.

He only opened his mouth to protest. "You poisoned it," he tried to say, but the words were drowned out as the wine swept down his throat. Sweet as a dripping honeycomb, cloying and sickly. Nathan had no choice but to choke it all down, with drops of it running down his chin and throat. Red rivulets of wine, veining against his pale skin. His throat began to constrict before the chalice was even empty. Soon, he was choking and gasping for breath; fighting against a pile of bed sheets as he finally woke up, gasping for air. Even as he regained consciousness, the sickly tang of the wine remained on his lips.

He fumbled for the bedside lamp, flooding the room in a harsh white light. A quick glance in the mirror, and he realised he had bitten into his lip, causing it to bleed. Wincing, he dabbed at it with a tissue before rolling out of bed and fighting with the French doors to get access to the balcony for some cool, clear air. Once out there, he leaned against the ornate concrete railing and drew several deep breaths. Closing his eyes, he tilted his face towards the breeze, letting the cool air blow away the bad dreams and disturbed night.

"Hi there," said the woman.

"Bad night?" asked the man. "It's as well you left your boxers on, or we'd be getting even more of an eyeful."

Nathan froze, considered backing away slowly with his eyes still closed so he could pretend it was another stupid dream.

"Harry, you don't think he's sleep walking do you?"

"No, I'm not," Nathan cut in, suddenly. He turned to where Harry and Ruth were stood on the same balcony, not ten feet away. The colour rose high in face, as he saw them both grinning back at them; laughter barely concealed. "Well … er … I'll… you know…"

Ruth was leaning around Harry, nursing a drink in her hands, getting him in full sight. Harry leaned against the balcony railing casual, as if this sort of thing happened every day. All Nathan could do was limply wave an arm in the direction he had come from.

"I'll er, say good night then."

He turned on his bare feet, and cleared the space back into his room with one great leap.

Breathless, flushed in the face and smiling vacantly into the semi-darkness; Ros and Lucas lay side by side on the two mattress brought together. Slowly, they drifted back to earth; back into their own skins as their climactic night began to recede. They lived their whole lives triumphing against adversity, and this night had been no different. Their success all the sweeter for it.

"At times like this I wish I was still a smoker," Lucas admitted, slowly catching his own breath. All those post coital cigarettes of years gone by drifted through his head. Different women, different beds, different blissful carcinogenic brands. Always the same effect.

"Yeah," agreed Ros, still smiling. "That was fantastic."

And fantastic it was.

* * *

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome, if you have a moment.


	6. Toxic

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!

* * *

**Chapter Six: Toxicity**

"Don't you just hate the way their eyes follow you around the room?"

Harry's own dark, beady-eyed glare was fixed on the Renaissance portraits that lined the walls of the breakfast room. The same ones that Ruth had just been admiring as she sipped her morning orange juice. He emphasised the point by sliding his knife, in one slow and deliberate movement, through a stick of butter; probably visualising it as some unknown enemy's heart.

"It's like they know all our secrets," he added. "And they're judging us."

The one nearest Ruth was a later effort, depicting Oliver Cromwell – appropriately enough. Infamous warts adorning a long, grim visage that was almost indistinguishable from the horse he posed alongside. Oil on canvass enemies were exactly the sort of enemies Ruth could deal with; if only they could all be so still and so silent. When she looked back at Harry, she hoped her expression was at least sympathetic.

"Do you ever worry that you've been in this job too long?" she asked, offering up a toast rack as a form of distraction. But it was Lucas who leaned over her and helped himself to another slice.

"I'm judging you, too," he pointed out to Harry, grinning. "We all are. Honestly, the paintings are the least of your worries."

"Thanks, Lucas," Ruth groaned.

But the ill-timed jest seemed to have resulted in Harry's coming round, somewhat. His mood had been veering from low to mutinous ever since they arrived. Some blessed relief came in the form of a junior member of staff bursting into their midst semi-naked the night before. But after some gentle ribbing about being unrecognisable with his clothes on, even Nathan had slipped back into his default setting, somewhere just above sullen brooding. He sat at the long table sandwiched between Beth and Tariq with his grey-blue eyes fixed on a jar of marmalade, as though it had done him some personal wrong. Even Tariq's sunny disposition seemed to have set, as he grimaced at his own coffee.

Ros was the last of their number to arrive. Of all the people to throw some life into proceedings, it had been her. She swept into the room at her usual brisk pace before stopping dead in her tracks to take it all in. The oak panelled walls; decorative chandeliers; glasses polished to such a shine that they glittered sharp rays of the reflected morning sunlight. When Ruth first saw it, she forgave herself for momentarily believing she had accidentally wandered on to the set of Downton Abbey.

"Now this is a bit more bloody like it," she declared aloud to the room at large. "I expect we'll be having a bit of this on the Grid from now on."

"In your dreams!" Harry snorted in response. "You'll go back to your instant coffee and your unidentifiable soggy pastries and be grateful for it."

Once settled in the vacant seat beside Lucas, Ros helped herself to some of the toast and juice that had been laid out among the more exotic breakfast platters. Like the rest of the team, breakfast – if they got it at all – was a hastily grabbed yoghurt and lukewarm cup of coffee. If there was one area in which the Irish surpassed all others, it was hospitality. Something lost on Tariq as he held his coffee glass aloft.

"Stay away from the Irish coffee, guys, there's something wrong with it," he pointed out. "Tastes really weird."

Everyone paused, turning to the young Techie with ill-suppressed grins. Tariq frowned back at them, unsure whether he was being laughed at or with. "I mean it!" he feebly added. Giving the beverage a tentative sniff, he added: "The cream might be off, or something. Or it's just some weird blend."

Lucas cocked a single eyebrow. "It's definitely not a blend you'll find in any Starbucks."

Tariq was still blank. "Y'what?"

It was Harry, now barely suppressing open laughter, who ended the mind-boggling confusion. "They add a measure of whiskey," he explained. "That's the funny taste. Although Lucas here has just revealed to me to true reason for my innate distrust of Starbucks: what kind of a coffee house doesn't sell the best kind of coffee there is?"

"But it's eight thirty in the bloody morning!" Tariq countered, scandalised.

"Welcome to Ireland!" Ruth called over to him.

"Yeah, that waitress poured Guinness on my cornflakes this morning," Nathan chipped in. "No better way to start the day!" Then seeing the look of horror on Tariq's face, quickly added: "Joke! Joke!"

Once the chatter began, the strange dislocated mood among the team quickly melted away. They were, after all, still human beings who had woken up in strange beds, in strange rooms and in a strange country that was not their own. Harry was content to sit back and let them gel with one another again, adapting themselves to their new surroundings and, not to mention, cultural differences. Or not quite, as the offending Irish coffee sat abandoned at the edge of the table while Ros passed down a regular pot coffee towards Tariq. Even Nathan perked up and managed to look him in the eye for the first time that day. Which was as well, seeing as his mission the following day was going to be a vital one, for Harry.

As soon as breakfast wound down and the waitresses cleared the spent clutter from the table, it was time to move to the business of the day. Bereft of the Grid and its specialised meeting room, they had to make do with what they had before them. The control centre that would be doubling up as their headquarters was situated in the less grandiose Stormont Buildings. Not the opulent Parliament building that the politicians had built for themselves back in the 1920s, but the functional concrete tower block of a building five miles east of it. The logistics of them being spread out over such a wide area were already proving to be a minor headache, often seeming to involve Harry's physical presence in three different locations at once. But if there was one thing that Irish politicians shared with their English counterparts, it was not letting minor details like the physical limitations of lesser human beings than themselves get in the way of their grand plans.

"Right everybody, team briefing!" Harry declared loudly. Never had a sentence seemed to put people back to sleep so swiftly. "I do apologise for once more shattering the illusion that you're all on holiday, but this needs to be done."

After a few deep breaths all round, the torpid air of a leisurely breakfast was slowly dispersed as they all shuffled closer to the middle of the table.

"Ruth, the itinerary please."

There was an expectant pause as Ruth reached into the handbag that she'd pushed under her seat. Once she had it, she laid it out on the now cleared table top, where the others could see it too.

"Well, we have today to get the rooms bugged and rigged, then Tariq can safely set up in the control room here," she began. "They've made space especially for it in the attics, I believe. We have one Asset based in east Belfast to make contact with today. He's normally handled by Jo Portman, over the phone or whenever he's in London. But Beth's taking over while she's away."

"We're meeting in the docklands," said Beth. "It's where he always walks his dog, so it's nothing out of the ordinary."

"Thank you, Beth," Harry replied. "I also have a meeting to attend in Belfast City and that could take up most of the afternoon. So I'm leaving it to Ros to oversee the security sweep. If Lucas and Nathan could help her, I'd be grateful."

Both men nodded their assent. "The Republicans will kick up a stink if they find any devices in their rooms, and they're bound to check," said Lucas.

"So? We'll just have to be smarter than they are," Ros replied, sounding mildly excited by the challenge.

"Again, it's nothing majorly taxing for today. It's not until tomorrow that the real fun begins; that's when the political parties will arrive and the talks are formally opened," Ruth explained, after briefly consulting some of her papers. "However, William Towers will be arriving tonight to go over the choreography. Nathan, we need you to be back in Belfast by two pm tomorrow, so the Irish PM and British PM are both arriving at Hillsborough with the First Minister, at precisely three in the afternoon. They must all arrive together and greet each other in front of the press at three pm on the dot. Understood?"

"Understood," he replied. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"Nothing, if you do your job properly," Harry answered. "Dublin is a two hour drive away. So, you leave here with the First Minister at seven in the morning. You'll be in Dublin by nine, greeted by the Irish PM himself no less. Then a private meeting between Kyle McCracken and the Taoiseach which lasts for an hour. Then to the Memorial for the leaders of the Easter Rising. At eleven am, you start heading back. Okay?"

It was all about cross community relations. A Loyalist First Minister paying his respects to Republican dead; followed by the Irish Government finally admitting that numerous Irishmen died fighting against Nazi Germany alongside the British, despite the rest of the nation's policy of utter indifference. Neutrality, Harry unconsciously reminded himself, its called neutrality.

Nathan, however, still looked daunted and pale. "Can't somebody else do this? My last job was fitting bugging devices in the mobile phones of unfaithful husbands. Now you're asking me to transport the nation's political leaders across the length and breadth of Ireland."

"Oh no, you'll have a driver," Harry pointed out, gliding over Nathan's wild exaggeration. "Really, you're just going along for the ride."

"And to make sure everything runs smoothly, on time and that no one gets killed," Ruth added, beaming over brightly.

"So, no real pressure then?" he asked, flatly.

"Oh, Nathan, just do it!" Ros snapped, making him flinch. "If the prospect's really that terrifying to you, we can wipe the dribble off your chin when you get back and send you home on the next flight. You'll be back before the job centre shuts."

Whatever fight back Nathan had in him, he bit down on it and slumped back in his seat. He was almost pouting, or so Ruth thought as she glanced over at him apologetically. The others were used to Ros' temper, so the incident passed almost unnoticed. But for the silence of finality that had settled over them. Even Harry noticed it.

"On that note," he joined in, much more smoothly than Ros. "Class dismissed."

* * *

The rebuke still stung as Nathan slipped out of their makeshift "meeting room", out through the doors and into the solitude of the gardens. Even out there, the shadow of the castle loomed over him as he set off across the lawns towards a large duck pond with a pocket full of bread. He hadn't fed the ducks since he was a little boy and he and his family still lived in Germany, the country he was born in but scarcely remembered. A pair of desolate looking Mallards glided across the surface of the water, leaving a glittering slipstream in their wake. The strange, metallic green head of the male shone as it turned towards him; his female mate a little slower on the uptake, had to see the bread being crumbled in his hands before she approached. He imagined their little legs beating frantically against the unseen current below the smooth surface, belying their outward serenity.

He rather supposed his job was like that. An unseen force that was in a constant, frantic state of kicking, while the world upstairs in the open glided ever onwards. His own analogy made it almost poetic to his own mind. Dropping to his haunches at the water's edge, he didn't make his new friends wait for their breakfast treat and started rolling the bread into balls before flicking it over to them. Bills snapped at the air, closing over each morsel with an effortless ease. But the age of chivalry hadn't extended to ducks and the male butted the female out of his path to snatch away the fattest chunks. Maybe they were married? Maybe they just didn't love each other anymore? Or, maybe they had always hated each other and only stayed together for the sake of the ducklings, and had now forgotten how to live apart? This absurd inner-monologue made him equally absurdly sad.

"Greedy prick," murmured Nathan as he aimed for the timid female.

He threw it over her dull tawny head, making her flip over in the water and expose her under-belly. She brought up a streak of poisonous blue-green algae with her, tangled around her webbed feet. If he looked below the surface of the water, he could see tons of the stuff shimmering innocuously, pulled this way and that by the restless depths. Like everything else in Northern Ireland, all the toxicity remained beneath the placid surface. His so recent analogy of MI5 suddenly flipped on its head: here, it was the people above working frantically to make the abnormalities below into something serene. But look closely and you could see through it, to the sinews of ancient hatreds that continued to riven this land apart. But maybe that was what he had been doing, too? Fighting an endless fight to stay the same, while everything below the surface fell away to nothing. A single, bell-bottomed tear slipped from his eye, dripping from the tip of his nose and into the water. Small ripples barely registering as he made his personal contribution to its toxic contents.

With the last of that morning's bread dispensed, the ducks drifted apart again; supreme in their indifference to one another. Nathan got back to his feet and checked his phone. Once more, the gnawing silence of Olly wrung at his nerves as he swiped the tear track from his cheek on the back of his sleeve.

"Hey! Nathan!"

Beth's voice rang shrill in the crisp Autumnal air. He spun round on the spot, to find her bounding over to him beaming brightly. Blonde hair swaying jauntily with every step, she pushed it back with one hand as came to a rest beside him. She had a denim jacket wrapped tight around her shoulders, zipped up to the chin against the seasonal chill. Beneath that, he could see a thick silver-grey scarf wrapped snugly round her neck and under her chin. Such a distinct colour, he let his gaze rest on it for a moment.

"What are you out here on your own for?"

A reasonable question, since the entire team except him seemed glued at the hip. It was only ever Beth who spoke to him like this; as a friend. In response, he gave the ducks a nod. "Just thought they could do with some breakfast too."

The smile on her face drifted away as she held his gaze. A gaze under which he could feel himself being silently assessed. But she didn't say anything. She merely linked her arm through his and steered him away from the water's edge. They did not return to the castle, however, they set off round the side of it. Taking a circuitous return route.

"Tell the truth," she said, giving his arm a gentle tug. "You were brooding again, weren't you?"

Nathan drew a deep breath, and exhaled in a long sigh. "Sort of," he confessed. After a brief pause, he felt the need to justify himself further. "They saw me in my underpants last night! Ruth getting a full eye-full, while Harry just stood there with a big Cheshire cat grin on his face."

Beth tried to stop herself from laughing, but failed and reduced it to mere equine nasal snorting sound, almost doubling over with the effort. But when she composed herself once more, she turned to look up at him earnestly. "But that's a good thing. It means you won't have to do the initiation rite now."

Nathan grinned. "What initiation rite? The parading round the Grid in your underpants rite that no one bothered to mention at the interview?"

Now Beth sighed. "Mentioning it at the interview would defeat the purpose!"

Nathan shrugged. "Fair point. But seeing as I don't have to worry about it now, it's all good."

All good, he thought to himself. It was anything but. He didn't like the way Harry was sending Beth out on her own to speak with this old Asset in the UDA. It didn't seem right, to him. Tom Quinn wouldn't have done it, but that was his last employer.

"Are you really okay with this?" he asked, turning serious. "Your assignment for this morning, that is."

"Of course," she replied, dismissively. "The man's old, Nathan. A granddad with a colourful past, that's all. Anyway, we meet Assets alone all the time back home. Safer that way."

"Yes, for them," he pointed out.

"Exactly!" she retorted, firmly. "Nathan, you're kicking against Harry for the sake of it. Stop doing that. He's a good man; a good boss and he seriously knows what he's doing. Give him a chance and he'll give you a chance in return. As for Ros… well…. We all get used to her in the end. So will you; if you make the effort. Step out of that comfort zone you're in and start taking risks."

He knew she was only being sensible. But knowing she was right served only to make the task ahead of him seem even more insurmountable. He felt like he was being pushed into situations others knew he couldn't handle just so they could shove him off the cliff edge at their leisure. Sensing the continued downturn in his mood, Beth sighed heavily.

"Come here!" she said, throwing her arms wide open.

After a brief hesitation, Nathan complied. They held each other in a rib-cracking bear hug for several minutes, during which nothing more was said. When they did drew apart again, Beth turned away to leave. Her car was due any minute, but she was driving herself to meet her new Asset. They waved, before walking away in opposite directions.

* * *

"Ahead of tomorrow's ground-breaking talks in Northern Ireland, the Irish Authorities have once more begun searching for the Disappeared," the pristine newsreader announced, before fading into footage of a desolate rural wilderness. "Areas along the Cavan, Monaghan and Dundalk borders will be searched according to new information released by the leadership of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. Among those still missing is British Military Intelligence Officer, Paul Kendall…"

Kendall's image flashed up on the screen, an image mirroring Harry's last memories of the man perfectly. The big moustache, the shock of jet black hair. Only his blue eyes made dark in the black and white image. It made him shiver; brought him out in gooseflesh as though it were a ghost. Ruth was sat beside him, where she was able to put her arms around him easily. But he could see over her shoulder, to where the news report once more showed images of heavy machinery tearing up the earth.

When they parted again, he could see tears standing in her large, blue eyes. She tried to discreetly blink them away, but he had noticed and she knew he had noticed. He had not mentioned who that day's meeting would be with, but he suspected she already knew.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" she asked, struggling to keep a tremor from her voice.

He tried to smile. "Of course. I'll be back before you know it."

The newsreel ended; the screen going dark as Ruth hit the power button. Harry collected his jacket from the back of his chair, ready to meet his driver.


	7. Glass Bubbles

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**Sláinte Mhaith**: Good health (traditional drinking toast)

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Glass Bubbles**

By the time they reached the foot of the Newtonards Road, ready to turn off into the city centre, the rain had started. In the beginning, those first few tear drops of rain were barely substantial enough to leave a streak of dampness against Harry's passenger window. But he grinned in remembrance of the Ulster weather and started the countdown in his head: three … two … one … cloudburst! Then it was as though someone had torn a hole in the sky as the rain came thundering down. Over the drumming of the rain against the roof of the car, another vehicle's horn blared. Startled, Harry almost dropped the newspaper he was carrying and looked up to see Beth Bailey beaming at him from the car beside theirs, waving enthusiastically at him from behind the wheel. He didn't get a chance to wave back before the traffic lights changed and they pulled away in different directions. The hire company had provided her with a metallic purple VW Beetle, the sort of thing Ruth might like.

Driving through Belfast city was like hearing an old song you thought you knew the words to. The tune was familiar but Harry found himself stumbling over the words and memories as they passed down old streets and highways that seemed to have rearranged themselves in his head. Once, there were large metal gates at the entry and exit of every road, even small alleyways. Now they were gone, with not even a trace of running rust stains to mark where they once stood. Gone too were the metal detectors in the entrances of every shop. They were no soldiers; no military vehicles or checkpoints. Two police officers of the PSNI, a man and a woman, ambled casually down the high street, chatting quietly to each other and drawing no untoward attention. Beneath their high-visibility jackets, handguns were discreetly tucked away. Ten years ago, they wouldn't have dared go anywhere on foot and those neat little guns would have been fully automatic machine guns, cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. The thought occurred to Harry then that, in another ten years maybe, they might not be armed at all. He watched as they passed, their young faces utterly unconcerned about anything.

It was only the layout of the streets, and the grand city hall looming over them, that remained the same. Enough to strike that resonant note of familiarity, but Harry would never have guessed where he was, otherwise. They passed a coffee house, outside which a waiter was hurriedly dragging aluminium chairs in from off the pavements and out of the rain. There were no coffee houses back in the day. No one stayed. A cowed and terrified public dashed into this city under siege and straight back out again. Smoking ruins had given way to glittering, glass-domed shopping centres complete with water features and stores selling designer labels. It would have been a cliché to imagine the phoenix rising from the ashes, but in that moment Harry could think of little else to compare it to. Like Cold War Europe, the Belfast in Harry's memories simply no longer existed.

As they reached the City Hall, they turned left and followed the one-way traffic system so they could eventually take the right-turn they needed to emerge on to Great Victoria Street. As with so many major cities in the UK, Belfast's traffic system appeared to have been redrawn by a posse of vengeful cyclists. When the driver did emerge on to the main hubbub of Great Victoria, the Europa Hotel loomed large on the right hand side of the road. It's adjoining train station now also remarkably free of security. Once, it had been the most bombed hotel in Europe. Harry recalled how it used to be stuffed full of bright-eyed journalists, waiting with baited breath and – probably – swelling erections as they anticipated the next explosion and a big, juicy body count to slavishly detail in their next report. Oh, how he had wanted to slap them all.

They drew to a halt outside the Europa, where Harry grabbed his brolly and opened it out like a great blossoming flower of black nylon to ward off the torrential downpours. After thanking the driver, he shoved the door closed and set off for the pedestrian crossing outside the train station. Waiting to cross, his brolly seemed magnetically drawn to all other brollies as crowds amassed, all getting tangled up amongst each other and causing a flurry of apologies and weather related wise-cracks all round.

As soon as the little green man flashed his signal, they all surged over the sodden road huddled beneath their newly liberated umbrellas. Harry turned right again, passing Robinson's Bar and the bookmakers, before pausing outside the Crown Liquor Saloon. He decommissioned the brolly while stood between the two ornamental marble pillars that formed part of the bar's ostentatious entrance, before heading inside. Established well over a century ago, it was a relief to see it still open for business despite the ever changing city that surrounded it. Inside, it was much the same as he remembered. Chromatic tiles on the floor, stained glass windows and a mosaic of a crown in the centre. Most of the public bar was comprised of intimate snugs, where diners and drinkers could have their own little space within a bustling space that was as likely to comprise the local drunks and bums as it was the journos, writers and artists that seemed to swell this part of the city.

At that hour of the day, however, it contained almost no one but the bar staff gearing up for the day and night ahead. Selecting the snug farthest from the bar, he deposited his brolly and coat before ordering real coffee from the barmaid who came bounding over to his table, almost indecently enthusiastic for the hour. But not long after the coffee arrived, so too did the person he was meeting. He almost bumped into the barmaid. "I'll have one of those as well, if you don't mind sweetheart."

Harry watched him as he slid into the seat opposite his. The years had been relatively kind to him. Unlike Harry, he still had all his hair (albeit more grey than black); he was still lean, but not as lean as he was in his youth. Wrinkles lined his bright blue eyes, the harshness of his Belfast accent was still tempered with the softer southern lilt; a sort of voice girls in England went weak at the knees for. But if Harry had been there to dispense fashion advice, he would point out that that moustache was pure 1970s. After this mental run down of Sean Mallon's aged appearance, Harry realised the ex-IRA man was returning the looks with equal curiosity.

"Well, Sir Harry Pearce, welcome to back to Belfast."

Casually, Harry stirred his coffee for a second before setting the teaspoon back on the saucer with a soft 'chink'. "I wish I could say I've missed you. But I'd be lying."

Mallon raised one greying eyebrow. "Wouldn't be for the first now, would it?"

"Touché," Harry laughed, despite himself. "How's Dearbhla? I do hope she won't be identifying your body tonight, after you've spent today talking to me."

As always, Mallon seemed to almost relish going to head to head with an old adversary. The thinly veiled caution was met only with a widening of the smile.

"Haven't you heard, Harry? The war's over now. Have you seen Belfast? Did you go through town?" He paused there, just as the bar maid brought his coffee over. Once she had vanished again, Mallon watched her go before resuming. "Seriously though, you and I have common enemies these days. The goal posts have shifted and the rules rewritten, and the bastards didn't even see fit to consult the likes of you and I before they did it."

Intrigued, Harry sat back against the back wall of the snug and watched the other man. He would have been a god send to the Dissidents, but he adhered to the peace process like super glue. Or, he seemed to. Harry hadn't forgotten his late night weekend 'visitor' and fully anticipated raising the issue very soon. But first, their common enemies.

* * *

Beth parked the VW outside the Odyssey Arena and stepped out of the car, despite having neglected to bring an umbrella. All she could do was pull her scarf up over her head and silently curse as she took in her surroundings. She hadn't expected the Docklands to be quite so public. Besides the Arena, itself a vast and sprawling complex that played host to some of the biggest bands on the planet, there was a Titanic Museum; fully functioning film studio that at that very moment was churning out another series of Game of Thrones; bars and riverside apartments as well as vast boats moored nearby from all over Europe. Her eye alighted on a giant statue of a bright blue fish on the opposite side of the lough, peering at it through a mist of persistent rain. At least someone was feeling more at home in this weather.

As she recalled that morning's conversation with Nathan, about the perils of meeting strange men in abandoned places, she took out her phone and turned back towards the Museum, arena and film studios, before snapping a quick selfie as a bus full of tourists zipped past. She texted the image to Nathan, along with the words: "now stop worrying". By the time the message's delivery report came through, a large and soggy greyhound had come bounding over and started sniffing hopefully at her jacket pockets. It was followed by an ageing gentleman huddled beneath a brolly, wearing a large jacket.

"Lady Jane!" he called, "Janey, come back!"

Beth scratched at the dog's ears, all the same. Besides, she recognised the man from his MI-5 file. Jim McDowell, a sixty-four year old ex-UDA gunman. It was hard to equate the man in the file with what she saw before her now. These days, he just looked like someone's granddad out walking his dog. There was no flashing signs; no identifying mark.

"Sorry, Missus, she gets a bit lively in the rain," he explained, bringing the greyhound back under control. "You must be Beth?"

"And you must be Mister McDowell," Beth replied, extending a hand. "Jo handed me your file before she left."

Jim smiled and returned the handshake, before hoisting the umbrella over to the other shoulder, so it also covered Beth. Just about. Then, they continued Lady Jane Greyhound's dockside walk as they followed the path along the waterfront. Instead of going towards the city, however, they followed the path out past the Arena, to where the shipyards once stood. Beth watched as the dog sniffed at the increasingly wild undergrowth, picking up the scent of canines gone by.

"Is this about the talks?" asked Beth, once they were well away from any crowds.

Now that she had umbrella coverage, she lowered her sodden scarf, sending freezing water running down her back.

"I can't say, specifically," he replied. "But the UDA are on the rise again. That worries me. They knew that MI5 would be coming here-"

"They could have guessed that, surely?"

"Of course, but they knew well in advance," he further explained. "It's the East Belfast brigade you need to watch out for, because I think they're planning on turning rogue."

Beth fell silent for a moment, mulling it over. The UDA ceasefire had been tenuous, even in the best of days. They still organised protection rackets, intimidated Catholic enclaves and shot the kneecaps out of any young buck they didn't like the look of. There had been several bitter feuds fought between internal factions within the organisation, only getting away with it because it was seen as private business, rather than both sections of the community fighting against each other. But lives had been lost, including innocent civilians who had been caught in the crossfire.

Soon, the path they walked along gave way to little more than a dirt track that led to warehouses that looked as though they had been abandoned long ago. But it was in these more desolate parts that Jim seemed to open up more.

"Before, it was the West Belfast brigade who turned rogue. The Brigadier in that area got too big for his boots and was running all sorts of drugs rackets and petty criminal gangs. When the North Belfast Brigadier tried to curtail him, the West Belfast guy arranged to have him murdered. Had him shot dead as he drove off the boat from a Rangers game in Scotland. Well, one UDA brigadier is never going to get away with having another assassinated like that. So the rest of the organisation united against the rogue elements in West Belfast and had them all driven out of the country. I'm sorry to say it, Miss, but I think they're all in Manchester now," he explained.

Beth stifled a dry laugh. "We know about them and we're watching them. Don't worry about that."

"Well, this is different," he stated, pausing to whistle to Lady Jane. As seemed to be the dog's habits, she ignore her owner entirely and continued to cut her own path. "Now, where we're at, the UDA…. No, scratch that, the working class Protestant areas think the Catholics are getting all of the benefits of the peace agreement at their expense. Patently not true, it's just natural sour grapes and all that. But that's the feeling on the streets, and it's leading to bad blood. In East Belfast, that bad blood is being exploited by the UDA leadership who're looking to capitalise on it and start another conflict."

"And what better way to do that than hit the talks that are being held?" Beth asked, guessing at where this was all leading.

"It's highly likely," he concurred. "But from what I've heard, there's already been some successful hits against the British Security forces."

Beth frowned, almost reeling against the revelation. She had heard nothing of it. "Like what?"

Jim paused as they reached a disused warehouse that was already half-consumed by the swelling lough.

"I can't say," he admitted. "I just assumed you would know and that it'd been kept out of the papers, or however you fellas deal with these things. But I heard they already had scored a hit against the Security Forces and that it would give you a good shake. Whether you can tell me or not, you can guarantee that if there's been one, there will be others."

Not having the highest of clearance levels, Beth had to admit that there could well have been something she didn't yet know about. But to compound how seriously Jim was taking it, the old man leaned in closer to her, whispering low in her ear.

"If truth be told, I feared it was wee Jo," he confided. "She is really only on holiday, isn't she?"

Beth stumbled over a rock jutting from the ground at that moment, but she steadied herself quickly and smiled. "Oh, she's fine honestly! She's soaking up the sun."

But Jim was already dead by the time she had finished explaining. The resounding crack of the gunshot and the old man's brains being blasted out occurred almost simultaneously and Beth had no time to react. His blood sprayed hot and sickening across her face as she screamed and jumped back again. Falling against a sodden grass verge, she only succeeding in sliding back down the bank and landing in the mud on her hands and knees. She rolled over on to her back, trying to work out where the gunshots had come from, while simultaneously pulling out her phone. But the freezing rain had numbed her hands as she tried to call the last number she had texted: Nathan. Cursing in frustration, she dropped the phone altogether just as it began to ring, but the world turned black before she could find it. A rough sacking bag thrown over her head as she felt her hands being forced behind her back and tied. Frantically, she tried to fight back, only for something hard to connect with her temple, seeing stars before her eyes before everything really did turn dark.

* * *

"Right … right … right a bit more; no! Left again!"

Nathan sighed in exasperation before glaring down the step-ladder at Ruth. She was craning her neck to look back up at him, attempting to direct where the bug should go.

"Can you at least try to be concise here?" he asked. "I can't go both left and right."

Immediately, Ruth was on the defensive. "I'm trying, but your idea of an inch is everyone else's idea of a yard!"

They were rigging up the rooms destined to be inhabited by a number of high ranking Irish Republicans. Lucas had already dealt with the phones, which they were probably too wise to actually use anyway, and managed to get a hidden camera inside the TV screen. So it was left to Ros to wade in on the latest one.

"Stand aside, both of you," she commanded, stepping into the breach. "I'll bloody well do it."

Gladly, Nathan hopped down off the ladder and relinquished control to Ros. Meanwhile, Ruth continued to steady the step-ladder. While he was up that ladder, his phone had been vibrating madly in his pocket, but his hands were occupied with the damn listening device.

"That was Beth," he said to the room at large as he went outside to call her back.

"Did she leave a message?" asked Lucas, putting down his latest phone tap.

Nathan opened up the text she sent, seeing the selfie alongside the museum and film studio. He grinned at the message, feeling like a fussy old man over what he'd said to her that morning.

"Oh, it's nothing. She just said not to worry," he explained, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Right, what's next?"

Before anyone could answer, the door was shoved open and a towering man of well over six feet was stood on the threshold. His dark grey hair was swept back and under one arm was a battered, leather bound bible. He glared at them all, each in turn as he stepped into the room without offering explanation of his presence. They all turned to look at him in bewilderment.

Ruth was first to gather her wits. "First Minister McCracken, welcome-"

"It's been brought to my attention," he cut over her, "that attending these talks are, as follows: four fornicators, three communists, two homosexuals-"

"And a partridge in a pear tree," Ros half-sang, half-shouted over the rest of his sentence.

Ruth didn't quite manage to disguise her laugh as a cough. But then, neither did the others. Still, the First Minister drew a deep breath as he made a gesture of surrender. "The Big Man just wanted me to point this out. Don't shoot the messenger."

"No disrespect, but we're not the morality police," Lucas put in, gently. "Fornicating, gay communists is another department altogether."

Nathan was rather more blunt. "The Big Man?" he repeated dumbly. "You mean, God told you all that?"

McCracken turned a withering glare on to Nathan. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. I meant the Reverend. He can't come up here, so he's waiting downstairs and demanding to see Harry Pearce about it. Especially the Communists. The Reverend is ninety-three, you know?"

Still on top of the ladder, Ros looked faintly perplexed. "Since when has Communism rated above fornication on the mortal sin scale? Or have I just been going to all the wrong parties?"

McCracken sighed heavily. "Can Harry Pearce please come and allay the fears of the Reverend? What rates as a sin in your books is a matter for your own conscience."

Ruth, as ever, acted as the conciliator. "I'm sorry, Harry is at an important meeting in Belfast. Can I help?"

The First Minster looked Ruth up and down, testily as though trying to decide which of the three big sins applied to her. All the way along, Ruth tried to keep the benign smile on her face. But it slipped occasionally, as though she was trying to guess which of the three new deadly sins he was pinning on her. Eventually, she passed.

"Very well, but be gentle with him. He's ninety-three."

An amazed silence descended over the room as Ruth and the First Minister left together. All three of the remaining inhabitants carried on watching the door, long after it had closed again. Eventually, Nathan cleared his throat and pointed to the spot where the Minister had recently been standing.

"That's the guy I have to take to Dublin tomorrow? Four hours, trapped in a car with that nut."

"I'm sure you'll get along like a heretic on fire," said Ros, stepping down from the ladder. "We deserve a break after that. Come along!"

* * *

Harry poured the last of his coffee into his cup while Sean Mallon continued explaining. So far, it sounded suspiciously like MI5 were being asked to share intelligence with the IRA, of all people. But, he knew their tactics; they always opened up talks by demanding the impossible and Mallon no more expected Harry's agreement than he was willing to give it. But when he did speak again, he recalled the masked man who showed up at his house.

"Coincidentally," he pointed out. "This uninvited guest showed up within hours of you calling me at the Grid."

Mallon, however, looked blank. "Nothing to do with me. All I wanted to tell you was that the Real IRA are planning a hit on our esteemed First Minister, Kyle McCracken, and that it's happening during these talks."

Harry remained sceptical. "And why are you telling me this? They'd kill you if they found out; even if you are telling the truth about our visitor."

"No they wouldn't," Mallon countered. "Listen, we have as much interest in suppressing the Dissidents as you do. We're on ceasefire, Harry. We want peace. We want this to be a success. What did I ask you earlier, about driving through town? What did you see? Compare it to what you didn't see."

Harry pondered the question for a long moment, thinking back over his recent trip through town. Things had changed, no one could deny it. Given that the PM who brokered the peace deal here was the same one who tore the lid off the Pandora's Box in the Middle East, the slowly strengthening peace in Ireland was almost ironic.

"You people are every bit as bloody obtuse as ever," Mallon sighed. "But right now, it's like I'm living in a bubble made of tinted glass, looking out at these Dissidents; I'm banging my fists on the glass but no one can hear me. I can't do anything, except watch them repeat the same mistakes we made, back in the seventies. Do you know how scary it is to think those same mistakes could yield the same consequences? Do you know how frustrating that is? Because I think you do."

Harry had been in that glass bubble. He had been the one slamming his fists against the sides and screaming mutely at the dumb world, blindly traipsing to their deaths. But it was the likes of Mallon who put him in there. Mallon was the one who made the damn glass bubbles to begin with, when he was last here. Was this a natural transition? From paramilitary to peace maker, seemingly on the turn of a hair. But it never was as simple as that. All this had taken fifteen long, agonising years of step-by-step peace building.

"We're already watching the Dissidents, what more can we do?" he asked, shortly. "We have our own surveillance techniques, as you well know."

The two men fell silent, each looking daggers at the other. Until Mallon backed down and started toying with a condiment tray. Harry could tell he was still mulling things over.

"Everything I did," he said, speaking low. "I did because I thought it was the right thing to do. I did it, because we had a clear goal in mind: a united Ireland. Because Ireland is one country, just like you regard Britain as one country. Or three nations in one country. Each, you recognise, as a country unto itself, free to exist. But Ireland… That's another matter. What is it we have that you people want so bad, anyway? You have no need for access to the Atlantic, air travel sorted that out. You know you don't need our farm lands anymore. Face it, Harry, your people and your government would drop Northern Ireland like a red hot brick, if only it wasn't for the Loyalists holding you over a barrel."

Harry felt as though he had had a secret part of his soul revealed to himself for the first time. But even that didn't come without an extra downside.

"But you also know that the Irish Republic wants this Province like it wants a hole in the head," he pointed out. "No, really, the Dail is more than happy to let London sort out the Irish Question-"

Mallon laughed. "Poor you, Harry, someone expects you Brits to mop your own mess for once. How dare they!?"

Harry sighed heavily, quickly pulling back from getting further drawn into a slanging match. Once in that mire, he would never get out again. Meanwhile, Mallon calmed himself down by ordering two single Irish Whiskeys from a passing floor girl. When they arrived, he nudged one over to Harry.

"The fact remains is," he stated. "I am working for Ireland's interests and you are working for Britain's interests. Right now, they're the same thing. You and me, Harry, we could almost be each other. The only difference is that you once had a license to kill."

He held the glass aloft, tilting it towards Harry. He looked at it for a moment, before raising his own glass. The problem with making peace was that you could only ever do it with enemies.

"Sláinte mhaith," they chorused.

Their glasses chinked together, the amber liquid slopping from one glass into another. If it was poisoned, it would take out both of them now; in theory at least. Once, he told that to Connie James and he tried not to think of her now, as they both knocked the whiskey back in one. Harry set his glass back down on the table and looked Mallon square in the eye. "So," he said. "In this new found spirit of peace and reconciliation, perhaps you care to explain what happened the night Paul Kendall died."


	8. The Unknown Soldier

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight: The Unknown Soldier**

Once the question was out, that whole night seemed to play out in Harry's mind. The snow and the broken down car; headlamps flashing off Gaelic street signs and the frantic run back to Crossmaglen. A brief conversation with a man who vanished moments later and a single gunshot replayed in his mind, the blast echoing down the intervening decades. A trail of blood, frozen in the snow and shining in the reflected lights of an abandoned barroom – it made him think of rubies, then and now. Snow may melt, but people don't. Something happened that night, and he had waited so long for the truth. But would he get the truth? And if he did get the truth, would Harry recognise it at the truth? For years the IRA had played with them; fed them half-truths and snippets of reality. Just enough to raise their hopes, before dashing them again and making out to the world it was their own fault in the first place. The IRA were experts in the field of manipulation and distortion and they used their talents to far more devastating consequences than mere bombs and bullets.

The problem with the truth was that one had to trust the person telling that truth in the first place. Between Harry and Sean Mallon, trust was zero. They could share a drink and recognise each other's truce, but it did not erase the pain of their shared history; their opposing beliefs and contrasting means to an end. But then, Harry supposed, even an explanation of what happened that night would be better than nothing. Just one version of events, other than his own, to shine a light on what really happened, by someone who saw it all.

In return, Sean Mallon looked across the table at Harry and gulped down the whiskey in one. Eye contact held, flashes of that night repeated themselves over in Harry's head. Snapshots of disjointed scenes, from the moment of his arrival, to the point of departure, playing themselves out at will. Meanwhile, Mallon set down his glass and looked back at Harry, measured and unnervingly unmoved by the question. In the past, Harry had always been surprised at how in depth the IRA's anti-interrogation techniques were. For an organisation that had thrived on pulling America's romantic heartstrings (which always seemed inextricably linked to their purse strings), they were ruthlessly cold and efficient in dealing with the real business of their cause.

"I called you last Friday to talk about this – as well as something else," Mallon admitted. "You were to be informed that information had been released, that Kendall's burial site had been identified and the PSNI informed. Kendall's body will be recovered." He spoke with not even a flickering trace of regret or remorse.

Harry's throat constricted painfully as he worded a polite response. "Kendall's remaining family will be very grateful to have his remains; to be able to give him the dignified burial he deserves. But that doesn't answer my question, Sean. What happened the night he died?"

"I am coming to that," he replied. "The informer – suspected informer – who was tried and executed that night; it wasn't him, Harry."

Feeling a familiar kicking sensation somewhere in his lower gut, Harry felt himself double taking again. "Explain that again."

"I said it wasn't him, Harry," Mallon repeated. "I know. I remember. When I saw that man's picture – the one released by the MoD – I knew right away, he was not the man executed that night."

Mallon spoke earnestly. Harry watched his every facial muscle twitch, looking for signs of bullshit or cruel jesting, but he spoke earnestly. Whether Harry opted to believe this version of the 'truth' or not, it seemed as though Mallon did. Unless he was a good liar and the IRA had to be as professional at lying as MI5 did, when need arose. The recently kicked sensation returned; only Harry couldn't tell who was doing the kicking: the IRA or Paul Kendall.

"If he was not the one killed that night, then who was and where is Kendall now?" asked Harry, tone measured with every inch of his own self-control. "No one has seen him since."

Mallon shrugged. "Where he went after, where he is now, I cannot say. That man in the picture, he was roughly the same age as us, wouldn't you say? He'd be late fifties, early sixties at most, now."

"He was five years older than us," Harry clarified. "He was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine when he was killed."

Mallon nodded. "I thought he was an IRA man called Brendan O'Connell, right. That was his cover story."

"I can confirm that," Harry replied, unwilling to provide any more information about Kendall's cover voluntarily.

"He told me he was born in Sligo, but raised in London. That got around the accent issue, which you people always failed so spectacularly in," Mallon continued. "Well, this Brendan O'Connell was the one I suspected of being an informer. When I took it up with him that night, he told me he'd already found out that the Brits had someone planted in my cell of the IRA and it was them who ratted me out. O'Connell told me that this guy's real name was Paul Kendall-"

"And you had no idea that Brendan O'Connell was the real Paul McKenna?" Harry was aghast.

"Of course not," Mallon retorted. "It was rare the Brits got one over on us, so when they did their cover went deep. Anyway, O'Connell told me that Paul Kendall was one of two possible men, and that he had fed them false information to lure them to the Republican Club in Crossmaglen that night."

Harry's heartbeat palpitated painfully. Fears and emotions carefully, systematically dissembled so his outward appearance barely flinched as another memory shot to the forefront of his mind. He was in Belfast when Kendall's call came. He remembered the conversation down to the last syllable; then looking out of the window at the silent, eerie snow drifts and dreading a two hour dash to Crossmaglen in a clapped out civvie vehicle.

"You were there that night, Harry."

Mallon's voice cut through Harry's thoughts. He couldn't have known that. He couldn't possibly have known that at the time, because Harry would be dead too.

"He tried to trap you too, Harry."

"How could you possibly know it was me he called?" asked Harry, his face a mask of numb disbelief.

Mallon reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet. Harry watched him as he opened it and took out two photographs. Both were slid over the table, face down, towards Harry. One image showed a young man, younger than Harry was back then, that he had never before seen. It was a black and white image, a boy barely out of school. He was in a squaddies uniform. Joined up to escape the rapidly expanding dole queues of the mid-seventies, probably. Harry set him aside and upturned the second photograph, revealing himself. It took Harry a moment to recognise his twenty-three year old self, posing in a 'borrowed' officer's uniform to impress Jane – at that time, his new girl. It was Kendall who took the picture.

"How did you get this?" asked Harry, his voice barely a whisper. He kept his eyes trained on the two images, side by side. Even as Mallon replied, he didn't look up.

"Kendall gave me them; said one of them was the real Paul Kendall and that the one who fell for the bait and turned up at the Club that night was the real tout."

Harry separated the Unknown Soldier from his younger self. "And this man got there before me?"

Once more, Harry remembered the headlamps of the car flashing off the Gaelic street signs; his curses as he realised he'd crossed the border and missed the tiny town of Crossmaglen. He recalled the engine packing in, and his crazed run through the swirling snow. He had been several hours late to that particular showdown. Kendall had been waiting for him. He came out and tried to send him away, but he had refused and lay in hiding. Whether Harry opted to choose this version of the truth, he couldn't deny that Mallon's story fit. An odd fit, but a fit nonetheless.

"He got there before you," Mallon confirmed. "And…"

His sentence trailed off, causing Harry to look up sharply. "And?"

"And it was Kendall who shot him."

Inwardly, Harry flinched. A small surge of nausea sweeping over him that made him drop both photographs. But once more, years of training kicked in and he schooled his every reaction. Would Kendall have done that to keep his cover? When one's life was at stake, who knew. Unthinkingly, Harry pushed the two photographs back towards Mallon, as though returning them.

"You keep those, Harry," he said. "I only kept them because my gut instinct was telling me there was something odd about that whole situation."

"So you suspected there was something amiss, despite him having killed a British Soldier?"

Meaning, his cover was blown anyway. Harry took back the photographs and tucked them into the pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. The story was too odd not to investigate.

"He was still under suspicion. But we were paranoid, Harry, if we shot everyone we suspected of being a tout, there wouldn't be an IRA. Still, I only saw the man I knew as Brendan O'Connell once or twice after that. At a Republican funeral and again in a bar. After that, nothing. When he vanished, I thought he'd melted back into the shadows of Special Branch, or just gone away."

From the tips of Harry's fingers and inward, everything was numb. He needed time to think; to process everything he had been told and he knew he wouldn't get that here. Hurriedly, he turned back to Mallon, bring their meeting to an abrupt end. "Dare I even ask what the other point to this meeting was?"

Mallon seemed thrown by the sudden change of subject. But he recovered quickly. "There's going to be a hit on the First Minister in Dublin tomorrow. It's coming from the Dissidents. The Surreal IRA, or whatever they're calling themselves now. I can find out more by tonight, I hope."

Once more, Harry was fixing Mallon with a shrewd look. "You're willing to help us thwart an IRA attack?"

"They are not the IRA," Mallon corrected him, unflinchingly. "The IRA are on ceasefire, unconditionally."

With neither time nor inclination to quibble the point, Harry merely absorbed another body blow and gave a jerky nod of the head. "What can you tell me so far?"

"Nothing besides what I just said," he answered. "I believe it's coming from Dublin, so it will be Gardaí's problem, most likely."

Another nebulous threat from another nebulous cell, one outside their jurisdiction. On top of everything else, it had to come first. But it occurred to Harry that if Mallon spoke true of this threat and really was helping, then it could prove helpful with everything else. Just this once, a tentative bond of trust resolved itself. Just a fleeting, temporary thing.

"Call me, if you hear anything else," said Harry, collecting his coat.

Before he got up to leave, Mallon look towards him again.

"For what it's worth, Harry, I am sorry from the depths of my being that any of this was necessary."

Harry knew he was referring to all the deaths, the bloodshed and strife of those thirty brutal years of conflict. But his mood of reconciliation was fluctuating, and it was currently on a downward turn.

"You and I will never agree as to whether that was necessary, Sean. But I appreciate the sentiment."

By the time he emerged into the persistent rain, he was shaking. He had also forgotten his umbrella, but he was in no mood for going back. Turning up the collar of his coat, as if that would help, he rounded his shoulders and nudged his way through the thronging crowds of Great Victoria Street.

* * *

Nathan checked his phone again, before cursing the blank screen. If he looked over the handrail of the balustrade he was on, he could just see Ruth down in the lobby, talking to the Reverend. If he looked through the open door of Suite 202, he could just see Ros and Lucas fitting up the bugs, while Tariq worked on calibration not too far away. Out of the large bay window at the end of the corridor he was loitering in, he could watch as the rain hammered down outside. The duck pond he had been to that morning was having its glacial surface pummelled endlessly, its edges expanding as the water began to swell.

That close to the glass, he could feel the chill draughts breaking through the window panes. Small rivulets running down the glass and obscuring his view, distorting the trees outside and making them bend as the light refracted. _It's an optical illusion_, he thought to himself. When he looked down at his phone again, his father's phone number was highlighted in a green backlight. _Do you want to call this number_? It asked him. _Yes_, he thought, before pressing down on the 'cancel' button. However, before he could slip the device back into his pocket, the ringtone trilled into life, lighting up the caller display to show "The Grid." Hurriedly, Nathan answered the call.

"Urgent message for Sir Harry Pearce," the switchboard woman said. "I repeat, urgent message."

If a person was capable of speaking in caps lock, Nathan knew it was her.

"I can pass that message on, but he's out at the moment," he answered.

As though she had not heard, the woman continued. "The body of one of your Assets has been found in East Belfast docklands. Jim McDowell. You must go to the Docklands immediately and speak with Detective Sergeant James Henry. Ensure Harry Pearce receives this message."

"Shit!" Nathan cursed, almost dropping the phone. "Detective Sergeant James Henry?"

He repeated, making sure he had the name right. When the woman confirmed, he hung up the phone and ran back down the hall, to the suite Ros and Lucas were still rigging. They stopped what they were doing as he entered, both turning to look at him as though he wasn't meant to be there.

"That was the Grid," he stated, breathlessly. "That asset Beth was talking to this morning has turned up dead."

Lucas was halfway up a ladder, but leaped the rest of the way down. "What about Beth?"

Nathan shrugged. "They didn't say. We need to get down there now and speak with Sergeant James Henry. He's heading the PSNI team down there now."

Ros was already reaching for her jacket; Lucas his car keys.

"Nathan, you're coming with us. But what about Ruth? She's talking to one of the party leaders," said Ros.

"We should leave her here, in case Harry comes back," Lucas replied, before turning to Nathan. "You keep trying Harry's mobile. I'll drive."

Beyond shoving a box under a bed, they made no effort to conceal what they were up to in that room before leaving it. Nathan turned to Ros, but she was set on her task and even Lucas fell silent as they all strode out of the hotel and into the downpours outside. They passed Ruth, still talking in hushed tones to the wheelchair bound Reverend, offering the old man another suck on an oxygen mask, which he declined in a manner most verbose.

Outside, it was freezing cold and the winds had picked up to a brisk pace that whipped Nathan's tie over his shoulder. As soon as he was in the car, he got his phone out to try and get hold of Harry. It was then he spotted the missed call from Beth. His brow creased in concern as he checked the details of the call. No message, but it came through two hours previously and a full forty-five minutes after she sent the selfie, telling him not to worry. Seated in the back, he had to lean forwards to pass the phone to Ros between her passenger seat and Lucas' driver's side. She had to turn fully in her seat to see him properly.

"It's from Beth," he stated, as Lucas started the engine.

Ros frowned at the screen for a moment, before looking back at him. "Try and call her back. Even if she doesn't answer, it might just mean that she's busy with the police. Until we know more, try not to worry."

He did as she suggested, hoping beyond hope that she answered. But a pre-recorded message from her network provider informed him the phone had been switched off. Or gone dead, he added in his head and feeling sick to his stomach.

* * *

It felt like the world's worst hangover. A searing pain down one side of Beth's head, and she couldn't even move her hands to try and massage it. But as her wits slowly returned as she regained consciousness, the details of what had happened were swiftly drip-fed back to her, once piece at a time. She scarcely recalled the report of the gunshot, before everything became a blur and she ended up wherever she was now. The old boy was dead. She knew that much. She could feel a rough material covering her face, parts of it stuck to her face where the blood from her head injury had congealed. It was a sack over her head. When she dared to open her eyes, she could see nothing. But the surface on which she lay bumped and bounced, moving over an uneven surface.

Cautiously, but still painfully, she managed to roll over on to her back. Even that was enough to make her head spin dangerously and the injury to throb. Concussion was likely, making her groan audibly. If she was about to start throwing up, she at least wanted the bag off her head otherwise it would get truly uncomfortable. But whenever she tried to move, the bindings at her wrist grew tighter, digging into her flesh and making her teeth clench against the sharp pain. Helpless to do anything, she forced herself to lie still and play dead until the van stopped.

When it did stop, an inestimable amount of time later, Beth went from playing dead to playing very dead. Despite all the pain, she regulated her breathing, keeping it deep and steady. Her whole body slowly going limp and useless as her senses remained on as full an alert as she could force them. She noted the sound of footsteps crunching on loose gravel as at least one person approached the door of the vehicle. The door was flung open, letting in a sudden influx of light that was just about visible through the sacking material over her head. While her body played dead, her own heart refused to follow suit and hammered painfully against her chest at twice its normal speed as rough hands dragged her from under the arm pits.

"Be careful with her."

One male voice spoke.

"I am; she weighs a ton."

A second voice replied. Beth made a note to kill the fucker for saying that, making sure to commit his voice to memory.

"Is she out cold?"

"Aye, she is indeed. Here, get that wee fella out here to help carry her. Tell him to get her by the ankles and set her in next to that other one."

Beth counted in the third captor, and made note of their being "another one" inside. Or was that another captive? Beth pushed all questions aside as she listened to what her abductors were saying. The time for analysis would come later. Soon, there were more footsteps, and some picked up her feet. She carried into some unseen building like a sack of potatoes. The rain was now so hard it was leaking through the sacking cloth. But she did not mind. It wet the blood that had dried on her face, releasing the sacking cloth that had become stuck to it.

"This one's bound to be more useful than the other," the first voice said.

"Keep them separate; don't want them conferring," said the second one, the same one that complained about her weight.

"Sure, we can keep her in the attic until the Boss is ready to interrogate her," said a third, who was holding her feet.

Beth had to fight hard against the cold thrill of terror that seized her. Only the prospect of overhearing more intel worked to sooth her blossoming fears and bolster her belief that she could get herself back out in no time. As well as whoever else they were holding. Someone held a door open for them, but Beth only knew they were inside when the rain ceased falling on her. Up a flight of stairs, and then another. They kept bumping her sagging back against the steps and on the corners. Every jolt made the pain in her head throb nauseatingly. She was left on the floor while the attic was made accessible, then thrown into a careless fireman's lift as they hauled her up the steps.

It was warm and stuffy in the attic. She could feel her wet clothes turn cloying as they slowly began to dry. But they left her alone, bindings in place, at least. Then she could stop playing dead and try to work her way free.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome. **


	9. Black Square

**A big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thanks.**

**For some reason my Office suite keeps autocorrecting Beth's name to "Bath". I try to weed it out whenever it happens, but apologies for any I might have missed in the proofing. **

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Black Square**

Rain hammered off the roof of the VW around which the three Spooks gathered. Ros stood in the middle, with Lucas to the left squinting through the downpour at the vehicle; Nathan, to her right, scrutinising the picture open on his mobile phone. Every so often, he swiped at the screen with his sleeve, attempting to keep the rain off; efforts made futile by the fact that he too was soaked to the bone as soon as he got out their car. But Ros could see the image well enough, if she looked over his shoulder. Beth posed between the film studio and the arena, the message "now stop worrying" emblazoned beneath the selfie. When her gaze travelled from the miniature image, the real thing appeared before her through the misting rain, only without Beth Bailey. It was as though she had simply been photoshopped out of the scene.

There was no sign of a police presence in the now desolate car park. Only other civilian vehicles; from between which a lone greyhound trotted into their midst. A sodden red leash trailed the ground behind it, a solitary splash of colour among the urban greys that caught Ros' eye. Quickly, she brought one heeled boot down on the trailing lead, bringing the animal to an involuntary halt.

Lucas frowned at her. "What are you doing?"

"It's his," she said, stooping to pick up the leash with a grimace. It was cold, wet and dirty after being trailed by the dog through god knows what. Nose wrinkled, she handed it to Nathan, pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Here. She's all yours."

"Thanks," he replied, flatly. Then wrapped the leash around his wrist as he brought the dog to heel without protest.

Instinctively, they all set off in the direction the dog had come from. Having already guessed that Beth and her asset had set off on a track away from the crowds, they found themselves following a narrow dirt track leading towards the shipyards nearby. Ros cursed quietly under her breath as the heels of her boots sunk into the rain churned earth, reducing her progress to a frustratingly slow progress. Meanwhile, the two men had to wait for her to catch them up. The three of them, standing in the rain without a brolly between them, like stuffed sheep. A bad day gradually getting worse. Even the dog looked pissed off.

"Look," said Nathan, breaking the tense silence. "Up ahead. There's a cordon."

Ros followed the direction of his nod, to where yellow tape blocked the path ahead between two disused storage sheds.

"Thank god," she sighed, picking up her pace. "Any nonsense from these people and I'll set that beast on them."

Lucas managed a wry smile, but it vanished as already a high-visibility jacketed Officer set off purposefully down the path in their direction. Moments later, he was waving his arms like a drowning man, shouting muffled commands to stop right where they were. Already riled, Ros drew herself to full height and increased the length of her strides. Now, it was Nathan and Lucas who had to jog to keep up with her as she prepared to take on the minions of officialdom.

"Go easy on him," Lucas implored as he watched the PSNI officer drew closer.

Nathan laughed. Ros ignored them both as she homed in on the rapidly advancing Officer.

"This is a crime scene!" the officer explained, once he reached normal hearing distance. "You can't go any further."

"We had noticed," replied Ros, taking on board Lucas' caution. "Take us to Sergeant James Henry, if you would be so kind."

She did not break her stride as she stepped around the Officer. He thrust out one arm to try and blocked her path, but she was already gone. Splashing him with dirty water as she trod in a puddle as she went.

"No wait, Madam, you can't go down there," he tried again, to no avail.

All he got in response was an apologetic backward glance from Lucas and a shrug from Nathan. Almost as an afterthought, Nathan paused a few steps away from the Officer and looked back, holding out the dog's leash.

"Do us a favour and hold on to this, will you?" He nodded towards the greyhound, sending fat raindrops dripping from his sodden hair. "We think it belonged to the victim."

The Officer looked scandalised, but Nathan merely hooked the loop of the leash over the other man's hand – arm still outstretched from where he had tried to block their path – and muttered a hasty "thanks". Freed from dog-sitting duties, he ran to catch up with Lucas and Ros who were now ducking under the yellow crime scene tape. Once he had caught them up, he could see the white forensics tent stretched over the crime scene, protecting it from the persistent rain and other outside interferences. People in white boiler suits came and went, none of them paying the three spies any particular attention. Someway up the path, where the dirt road widened to accommodate the storage sheds, police cars and an ambulance were parked, blue lights still flashing through the dismal air. From inside one of them, a Policeman appeared and pulled his coat over his head as he jogged over to meet them.

"Sergeant Henry?" asked Ros, once he reached them.

"You must be from MI-5," he answered. "I spoke to Miss Evershed earlier, I take it you're her?"

Ros couldn't help but smile. "Not quite. I'm Ros Myers, Section Chief; this is our Senior Case Officer Lucas North and this, at the end here, is our new Junior Case Officer, Nathan Fraser."

They each shook hands with the Sergeant in charge of the crime scene.

"Come with me into the tent," he said, leading the way. "There may be a corpse with his brains blown out in there, but at least it gets you out of this rain."

Before any of them could do that, however, they each had to don similar white boiler suits as the ones the forensics team wore. It made Ros' cold, wet clothes cling to her body like a second skin. She could tell, by the look on Lucas' face, that it wasn't exactly pleasant for him, either. But once done, they all headed towards the forensics tent and let themselves in via a zipped entrance in the front. Sergeant Henry sent the forensics team out the duration of the briefing.

"Once of your other Officers was with him when he died, right?" he asked, once they were alone.

"Beth Bailey," Ros replied. "We know they met, she contacted Nathan here, and she's not answered her phone since this morning."

The Sergeant looked thoughtful for a moment. "There's only one body, but I have already authorised the search for another. Do you have a picture of her? We could do with knowing who we're looking for."

Ros turned to Nathan, who had the most recent picture stored on his phone. She found the Junior Case Officer shivering violently in his newly donned boiler suit, hovering close to the exit and staring fixedly ahead. When Ros turned to see what had spooked him so badly, she saw where the tent had been erected and fixed against a steep grass embankment. Slumped against that embankment, an older man of roughly Harry's age or more was slumped, still with gore and blood seeping from a gaping, jagged hole in his skull. Over the years, she had honed an ability to look through the dead as though they were merely discarded shop mannequins, twisted out of shape. On a surge of concern for the younger officer's mental state, she quickly wondered how best to usher him back outside without embarrassing him. But as soon as Nathan noticed Ros looking at him, he pointed to something just above the body. Something Ros hadn't noticed when she first came in. A scarf, grey – black in colour, hanging from a loose, over-hanging bramble that grew from the embankment.

"That was Beth's," he pointed out. "I saw her wearing it this morning, by the duck pond just before she left."

Before she could form a reply, she noticed that Lucas also had spotted something. He had moved to stand near the feet of the body, leaning downwards so that he was almost bent double.

"What is it, Lucas?" asked Ros.

Whatever it was, it was half-submerged in the mud.

"It's her phone," he replied. "Can we move it to get a better look?"

The question was directed at the Sergeant, who produced a biro from his pocket before joining Lucas. Ros and Nathan also gathered around as the policeman prodded at the item, dislodging it from the waterlogged earth. The battery was almost dead, but the screen had frozen on the last call Beth had tried to make; the backlight showing Nathan's name and number, an error message informing them the line had gone dead. Instinctively, they turned to look at Nathan, who in turn kept his gaze on the phone. Ros could almost feel the heat of the guilt oozing from him now.

* * *

By the time Harry made it back to Hillsborough it was almost dark. A premature, foreboding dusk that settled uncomfortably around the castle walls, matching his mood after the conversation with Paul Mallon. Revelations from which he was still reeling as he made the dash from the car to the castle, having left his umbrella in the pub. Once inside and dry, he checked his wrist watch and saw that the others would probably be in the dining room for their evening meal. However, after finding the dining room abandoned, he made his way back towards the main foyer. There, he finally found Ruth being regaled by leading members of the Progressive Loyalist Party, including their ancient, decrepit leader and First Minister deputy leader. Harry's stomach knotted as his gaze met Kyle McCracken's.

As soon as Ruth noticed his arrival, she whispered unheard words into the First Minister's ear before rushing over to join him. He was taken aback by the furious look on her face as she closed in on him, before pulling him into the empty dining room.

"For Christ's sake Harry, where the hell have you been?" she demanded. "We've been calling you for hours now!"

Shock registered in his expression as he tried to fathom what had been happening. "You know where I was, I told you myself," he replied, defensively.

"Yes, dredging up ancient grudge matches while your junior staff were walking into ambushes," she retorted.

The unfairness of her anger smarted, but not enough to drive out what she had said. Shock hit him like a punch in the gut.

"What? Who?"

Finding his way into an empty seat, he managed to pull out a chair and sit back down without taking his eyes off Ruth, who soon took a deep breath and followed suit. Even though she had steadied her anger, she was still clearly mutinous.

"Our Asset in the UDA was shot dead this afternoon, during his meeting with Beth-"

"Where's Beth now?" Harry cut over her again.

"Ros, Lucas and Nathan are down there now, trying to find out. No one's been able to contact her. Harry, you should have been here," she persisted. "Tariq has been calling and calling. Where is your phone?"

He had switched it off as he left the pub, not wanting anything to intrude on his thoughts after Mallon's revelations earlier that day. Ever since then, his mind had been reeling, but news of Beth's ambush had driven that clean out of his head, now.

"Ruth," he said, covering her trembling hands with his own. "I'm sorry, but I'm here now."

Ruth calmed herself once more, her breath shuddering in her chest as she got her nerves under control again. "The bloody politicians are showing up early, too. McCracken still needs escorting to Dublin tomorrow; the talks haven't even begun yet, and now this!"

The more she talked, the more frantic her tone became. "Don't worry about that now. Let's just wait until Ros and the others get back and we can be briefed. Give her a call and tell her where we are."

While she did that, Harry buried his face in his hands. When he left the bar that afternoon, he had done so with the sole intention of finding Ruth at the first opportunity and telling her everything that had come to pass between him and Sean Mallon. It was a story that was already becoming muddled in his head, barely two hours after the conversation had ended. Once Ruth's call had ended, she dropped the phone on the table between them.

"They're almost back already," she stated. "There was no sign of Beth anywhere."

Harry slowly released the breath he didn't even realise he had been holding in a long sigh. Leaning back in his seat, he looked up at the high ceiling that was barely visible in the ill-lit gloom. Jim McDowell was normally handled by Jo and even that, since the peace agreement, was once every other blue moon as Northern Ireland slowly stabilised. It was difficult for Harry to even recall exactly how useful the man had been to them. But now he was dead, and one of their Operatives vanished into thin air. A scenario that had a bitter taste of history repeating itself to Harry. Another trail gone cold; another body unaccounted for. But at least this time he knew for sure who's that body was. Finding himself already thinking of Beth in the past tense, he almost kicked himself.

"We're not going to let this happen again," he said, looking back at Ruth. He could feel the resolve slowly solidifying in his head: the dogged determination to get Beth back before she joined the others in an unmarked grave in some desolate, god-forsaken bog land.

Her expression darkened. "What?"

He realised she had no idea what he was talking about. But all that was too much to explain now. "Nothing," he said. "I'll tell you later, once we've seen the others."

The look in her eyes told in him she thought she was being brushed off again, but he really did not have time to go through everything Mallon had told him. But even so, he could feel the weight of the two photographs he had been given sitting in his breast pocket. One of him; the other of an unknown soldier. Before he could even reach them, the double doors of the dining room opened and the over-head lights flickered on as Ros, Lucas and Nathan all strode into the room. All soaked, pale and shivering after their ordeal.

"Well, what have you been able to find out?" asked Harry, before they had even claimed seats at the table.

Ros and Lucas beside Harry and Ruth, facing each other in a similar manner. Both ashen and grave. Nathan, meanwhile, perched at the far end, keeping himself to himself as he brooded. Harry glared at him. "Have we done something to offend you?"

Jolted, Nathan snapped round to look back at Harry in silence, before shaking his head. Taking the hint, however, he moved to sit beside Lucas. It was Ros who filled them in.

"We saw McDowell's body, so he's definitely dead. Nathan was able to identify a scarf belonging to Beth that had gotten tangled on some undergrowth. Lucas found her phone half buried in the mud. She had been trying to phone Nathan when she was taken. We have no idea who could have done this."

Finding somewhere to direct his pent up frustration, Harry glowered down the table towards Nathan. The Junior Case Officer, however, kept his own distant gaze directed at his lap, only serving to increase Harry's ire. "And where were you while Beth was trying to raise the alarm?"

Nathan flinched against the undertone of rebuke in Harry's voice. Slowly, he looked up at his boss apologetically, but stammered over his own excuses.

"I didn't hear the phone ring-" he began, but Ros stepped in on his behalf.

"He was with us the whole time, Harry. There's no fault with Nathan."

Then, Lucas leaned forwards, bracing his elbows against the table top as he too took a turn in calming the boss. "Even if he had heard the phone, we could have done nothing to prevent what happened, Harry. We would have just found out an hour or so sooner."

Nathan's anxious gaze was darting between each of his superiors, before finally resting on Harry. "I am sorry," he said, stammering once more. "It was a mistake." Colour stole into his face as he realised how lame the words sounded, even in his own ears.

Reining in the rest of his temper, Harry slowly backed down and released Nathan from his jaws. With the exception of Nathan, who still contemplated his own lap, the others were once more looking to him to provide answers he simply did not have. He couldn't begin to guess at who had taken Beth, or where and less still, why. But in the fog of confusion, one small clue slotted into place, a starters block at least.

"McDowell was shot right in front of Beth, while he was divulging information on the UDA, so it's a safe bet that he was shot by his own side," he began, formulating a theory in the darkness. "The same people who shot McDowell probably also took Beth. Chances are, as an MI5 Operative, she will be useful to them – so they will want to keep her alive."

Harry left the added 'for now' unspoken, as the memory of Zafar Younis sprang into his mind once more. He looked Ros, wondering whether she was thinking the same thing, but she was impossible to read. Tortured for information before being sold on, the thought of that happening to his team once more made him want to vomit.

"So, we need to find a way in with the UDA-" began Ros.

"I can do it!" Nathan interjected, a little too enthusiastically for Harry's liking.

"No, you can't," Harry retorted, firmly.

"Why not?" he demanded, hotly. "I intercepted Britain First, didn't I?"

"Yes, we know," explained Harry, trying to keep his tone even. "But I need highly experienced officers in there who will keep cool heads and not go charging in without thinking."

Nathan looked as though he had been slapped, but sat back in his seat and offered no further protest. The others held their tongues, until Ros spoke again, making no reference to Nathan's outburst.

"As I was saying, we need a way in with the Ulster Defence Association. They're British Loyalists, so at least our nationality won't pose a major obstacle. Lucas and I can take care of it, Harry. You and the others just make sure the talks pass off without a hitch."

"Thank you, Ros," he replied, gratefully. He noted, also, Lucas' automatic involvement brought a flush of confidence to the Senior Case Officer's face too. At least someone was happy.

* * *

That evening, Nathan sat in the bar nursing a vodka and lemonade. His table was out of the way, set back from the bar and even if there had been other patrons, they wouldn't have bothered him. The silence was unpunctuated, except for the mildly irritating squeaking noise as the under-employed barman passed the time by polishing glasses with a linen cloth. Otherwise, he was free to think things through as he stared into the clear depths of his drink.

He had viewed his move to MI5 as a step up in life. Especially after Tom Quinn had virtually put a gun to his head when he initially refused the commendation (purely through a sense of loyalty to his former employer). But it had cost him his relationship; his piece of mind and now, the only friend he had made since his big step up in the world of espionage. When he thought of Beth, a mushroom cloud of guilt obscured his vision. What had he been doing when she tried to call him? No matter what the others said, he couldn't help but blame himself. Like Oliver, Beth had dropped out of his life in the blink of an eye, leaving barely a trace in her wake. Hanging on to his friends was like clutching at smoke.

Once, he visited an art museum and sat in front of the Black Square. It was just a black square on a white background. He could recall, with great clarity, sitting there and thinking: "it's just a square." Why did that Russian guy even bother to paint it? What was the point? It was only after a good half an hour that he realised it succeeded in capturing his attention, regardless of what it was. It was only after looking twice, that he realised it wasn't a square at all. Its angles were ever so slightly irregular, not quite in line with the borders. Barely perceptible, but there all the same. He moved closer then, and noticed that the square wasn't even black. It was composed of numerous colours and shades, none of which was black at all. It was all there – all the differences in shade, all the contrasting colours and angles and shapes. He only had to look at it the right way, with an open mind, and the truth came slowly edging inwards.

He wished he could apply the same logic to Olly and Beth. But while the others blamed him for what had happened to Beth, they also denied him the opportunity to put things right. Harry had been adamant about that, to his eternal dismay. If she was dead, he knew he would carry the guilt to his grave.

Before he could tie himself in any more knots, a newspaper landed at his side with a high thump. It made his jump out his skin, but he whirled round in his seat to see the broad face of Sir Harry Pearce looking gravely down at him.

"Sir Harry!" he gasped, getting quickly to his feet.

Harry raised a hand, motioning for him to remain seated. "What are you drinking?"

Feeling another rebuke coming on, Nathan looked guiltily at his vodka and lemonade.

"It's lemonade," he replied, looking back up at Harry. "And vodka," he added, unable to lie to his boss. "It's only the one; I am sorry."

"So you should be," Harry retorted. "Spoiling a good drink with sugary pop. How old are you? Thirteen?"

With that, Harry draped his jacket over the back of the vacant chair opposite Nathan and sauntered over to the bar. He could overhear the man ordering a whiskey and a vodka, neat, no traces of sugary pop anywhere near either of them. Despite his louring mood, Nathan couldn't help but grin. Like the Black Square, nothing was at it seemed – not even a telling off from the boss.

Harry returned moments later with both their drinks, and nudged the vodka over to Nathan before sitting down. The two of them faced each other, while Nathan thanked him for the drink. Meanwhile, Harry retrieved his copy of the Belfast Telegraph, but only to fold it neatly away. His gaze remained trained on Nathan.

"You do understand why I did not permit you to go undercover with the UDA, don't you?" he asked.

Nathan nodded, then hazarded a guess. "Too new."

"No," Harry replied, mildly. "Because you blame yourself, which leaves you susceptible to unthinking and normally fatal heroics."

Nathan flushed. "But I am not the only who blames me, am I?"

"Ros doesn't. Nor does Lucas, nor Ruth. I bet Beth won't either. Nor, for that matter, do I," said Harry, before taking a small sip of whiskey. "Temper sometimes gets the better of us all, Nathan."

He recognised the shrouded apology.

"I understand more fully now," he replied. "But, please, I still want to help. I promise I'll do everything Ros tells me."

Harry's gaze locked into his own, dark green meeting azure blue and glinting. Nathan could feel himself being methodically weighed up. "You will be helping. But what that help consists of may yet expand considerably."

As well as recognising that earlier apology, Nathan also recognised the fact that he had gotten all he would get out of Harry on that front, for tonight. He would have to prove himself.

"First Minister McCracken used to be in the UDA, didn't he?" asked Nathan. "Or the UVF? Either way, they're connected. Maybe I could get information from him tomorrow, during the Dublin trip."

The suggestion earned a smile of approval from his boss, causing a flicker of pride in him.

"There you go, you see. There's plenty of ways to be of vital help without charging in to the nearest UDA drinking den and getting yourself shot. Engage your brain – according to Tom Quinn that was always your strong point."

Nathan flushed again. "I'm sorry-"

"And stop apologising," Harry sighed. "Anyway, I needed to see you regardless. You know Ruth and I had a visitor to our house last Saturday night. Then, two hours later, so did Ros."

Nathan had been distracted at the time, but he remembered them talking about it. "Yes. I hope Miss Evershed – er, Lady Pearce, I mean – was not shaken?"

Harry laughed drily. "Don't let her hear you calling her Lady Pearce," he said. "Her name is Ruth and I am just Harry."

Nathan cringed. "I'm so-" but he cut his own apology off, causing another laugh from Harry. But he soon composed himself.

"Now tell me," he began again, returning to his original point. "That same night your…" his words trailed off, as he struggled to think. "How do you refer to Oliver Jones? Your boyfriend?"

"Oh, you know?" Nathan inwardly cringed again. He was not ashamed; merely private. "He was my partner."

"I did read your personnel file before hiring you, you know!" Harry pointed out, but not unkindly. "Your partner vanished the same night Ros and I had our mystery guest, no?"

"I woke up the following morning and he was gone," Nathan confirmed. "He was angry with me for coming home six hours late, drunk. Very drunk. I think I threw up on him, actually."

"Nothing says 'I love you' quite like an arc of projectile vomit straight in the face," Harry mused. "But have you heard from him at all?"

Nathan still had the note he left, somewhere among his possessions. But Harry dismissed it.

"He could have been forced to leave that to throw you off the scent," he pointed out.

"But why?" he asked. "Why would they take Olly? He doesn't even know what I do for a living."

"Maybe they thought he was you?" Harry pointed out.

Nathan tried to imagine it. Some twisted part of him almost wanted it to be true, just to have an answer that didn't confirm his abject failure. But deep down, he knew he had been unequivocally dumped. "We were already in trouble. Olly just left, I think." But he couldn't be sure.

Harry took a deep breath. "Keep an open mind, Nathan. And if you remember anything at all about that night, do tell Ruth, Ros or myself."

They lapsed into a surprisingly easy silence while they both sipped at their drinks. The neat vodka burned at Nathan's throat, making him wince. A wince that caused Harry a moment of amusement, a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"Young people today!" he moaned. "Your father was an army man, wasn't he? Based in West Germany for a number of years."

Nathan had been born there, in Berlin. The family returned to his father's native South Wales only after reunification in the late eighties. But Nathan scarcely remembered those days.

"He was in the Welsh Guards," he answered Harry, at length. "Then some other regiment. I think. I think he came here, too. He must have, I guess."

He stopped just short of admitting that he and his father no longer spoke. Even his mother barely acknowledged him now. But then, Harry seemed to know that as well. There was a look of deep regret in his normally passive expression; something Nathan could not quite decipher.

"Fathers and sons," he said, quietly but then trailed off altogether. "Well, it's never easy. But you've done so well since you came off the heroin."

Nathan choked on his drink, spraying it over Harry's nice shirt. The older man merely smiled beatifically, trying not to laugh again. But Nathan was trembling, feeling like old wounds were being forced open and exposed. It was Olly who had locked him in a room and left him there to climb the walls. He had beaten that locked door until his fists bled; cried out for help until his throat was raw and every nerve in his body screamed for the sweet oblivion only heroin could bring. All the while, he sweated and shook; vomiting the addiction clean out of himself. Like expunging some malignant demon, he had clawed at his own heaving body until he bled. It was all ancient history now, though. He simply didn't know what to say.

Meanwhile Harry looked sad again, his gaze returned to Nathan and held him there.

"You remind me of someone I once knew," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Harry tried to raise a smile, but it was a limp affair that died at birth. "I only wish he had half your courage."

"I only wish my father had half your understanding," admitted Nathan.

"Maybe you just need to let him show it?" Harry suggested.

But Nathan only shrugged. "There was that; then there was the whole gay thing," he explained. "I think the two combined and just totally flipped him over the edge."

"Call him sometime," said Harry, as though he had not heard. "You've made enough attempts to call him, you should probably try talking to him as well. Preferably at the same time."

Nathan glanced at his mobile phone, where it lay silent and dormant beside his neat vodka. Maybe, he thought, remembering the Black Square. Maybe.

* * *

**I have no idea whether an ex-user would even be allowed to join the security forces, but for the purposes of this story, they are. Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely.**


	10. The Rocky Road to Dublin

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. **

**Jim Dowson is a real person, who really did bankroll Britain First. I was going to think of a cover name, but he's only being name-checked for the story's sake. He's not actually in it.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: A Rocky Road to Dublin**

At some point in the early hours of Wednesday morning, the rains ceased. By the time the first rays of dawn were penetrating the darkness, a fine mist formed and drew a veil of opalescent grey over the distant peaks of the Mournes. Harry looked out at the scene from the balcony of the room he shared with Ruth; watching as the mist gradually thickened to a fog that would soon be rolling down the mountains to shroud them all. A solemn beauty that served the double edged purpose of making their morning task of conveying the First Minister to Dublin that little more difficult. They would have to drive at a snail's pace through the mountains, before hopefully descending to much lower ground and joining a motorway. But just for this moment, the brief interim between the dying residue of the night and the start of another frantic day, he allowed himself to see only the beauty. A moment of clarity in which the rest of the jumble in his head could reset itself.

Still in the room behind him, Ruth stirred from a night of fractured sleep. Beth's abduction and a terror threat in before the talks had even begun had kept them both from anything like a decent night's sleep. If he looked left, he could see the lights on in Nathan's room – an indication that the Junior Case Officer's night hadn't been any easier than theirs. Quite how Nathan had managed to bag one of the best suits in the Castle remained another mysterious aspect of the new boy's being. He could have sworn it was meant to be Ros and Lucas next to him and Ruth; not that it truly bothered him.

After one final moment taking in what was still visible of the mountain range, he returned to the warmth of the room. Ruth was awake by the time he joined her again, but still beyond the power of speech.

"Uuuurr," she greeted him.

"I'll put the kettle on," he assured her.

It was one of those travel kettles that fit in the palm of his hand. While he waited for it to reach the boil again, he turned to look out over the grounds once more. Thinking to take in the view of the mountains, his eye was drawn to a figure moving swiftly through the wisps of fog that had begun to accumulate over the lawns. Tweed jacket and thick wellington boots, hiking pole in hand as though he was about to take on Ben Nevis, the Home Secretary was striding vigorously through an indecently early morning hike. Harry snorted derisively before casting a longing glance at the bed he had only reluctantly vacated a half hour before.

"What on earth is he doing?"

Having regained the power of speech, Ruth was sat up in bed grimacing out of the window. They always did read off the same hymn sheet.

"Something I wish most of his colleagues would do," he replied, stirring boiling water into two cups. "Taking a hike."

"No, Harry, look what he's doing!" Ruth sounded utterly scandalised.

"He's only gone for a walk, Ruth, he's not-" he cut himself off as he turned to see what had offended her so. "Good god!"

Through the swirling mists, Harry could see the tweed jacket was gone. The wellies left beside a heap of clothing as the Home Sec slipped into the freezing waters of the lake, mercifully covered in a wetsuit, of sorts. Harry couldn't even put a name to the garment. Feeling like a voyeur caught up in something he was never meant to witness, the inevitable result being the images forever burned into his memory.

"Drink this and pretend none of it is happening," he advised a minute later, handing Ruth her tea.

"At least he isn't naked," she replied, wrapping both hands around the mug.

Now that the politicians had begun to arrive for the talks, security had suddenly increased tenfold. Harry had been informed of PSNI checkpoints springing up on all roads leading to Hillsborough, and just at that moment the distant hum of a reconnaissance helicopter could be heard far overhead, occasionally dipping lower to penetrate the gathering fog. At least no unexpected visitors would be intruding on the Home Secretary's early morning dip in the glacial waters of County Down.

"I'll be speaking with the Chief Constable of the PSNI today," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He can advise us on the Beth situation as well."

"We need to talk to Ros and Lucas, too," she pointed out. "And is Nathan fully prepared for this morning's jaunt to Dublin?"

Harry recalled the conversation he had had with Nathan the night before. He had warned him of the threat passed on via Sean Mallon, but with no concrete information all they could do was prepare for the worst – however nebulous that may be. More intimate details of the discussion, he had not shared with Ruth, nor would he. For a moment, Harry looked back at his wife, noting the dark circles under her eyes – a souvenir of their broken night.

"Nathan knows as much as the rest of us," he replied, finally. "And he'll be using the time to try and extract information from McCracken. He may be all Saville Row suits and the King James Bible now, but he was a paramilitary once. He knows the people who took Beth; he knows who they are and where they hide."

Ruth looked anxious. "If he's as loyal to the crown as he says he is, surely he'll help?"

But it was never as simple as that. Loyal to Ulster and the Crown, but Ulster always came first and with it, those who 'defended' her. Either way, it was a test for Nathan. Harry drew a deep breath, wondering whether they had thrown him to the sharks, after all. But it was too late now. By the time Ruth was dressed, it was almost seven am. Collecting a hand gun from a locked draw; they left the room just as Nathan, next door, was leaving his. The three of them colliding with each other outside in the corridor. As always, Nathan was impeccably dressed with not an auburn curl on his head out of place. Something that would undoubtedly endear him to his equally well suited and booted political overlord and every little helped when an agent was working their way under the skins of the great and the good.

Following an exchange of morning greetings, the three of them set off for the reception area together. All the way there, Harry imparted as much advice as he could on how to handle a man like Kyle McCracken; where to apply just to the right amount of pressures and knowing when to change tack. Although he betrayed few signs, Nathan was nervous. Like Harry himself, he fidgeted with the knot of his tie and, when that ceased to suffice, took to pulling down his waist coat, straightening it so it was perfectly parallel with the waist band of his trousers. Before they reached their destination, however, Harry drew Nathan aside into an empty breakfast room.

"Take this," he said, handing over the gun he brought with him. "Holster it somewhere discreet; you may be needing it. Leave your phone on at all times; I might need to call you if Mallon gets in touch about this terror threat."

Nathan accepted the firearm with a nod. "Thanks," he said, just the faintest tremor of nerves in his voice. "But Harry, what if he genuinely knows nothing?"

"Then we'll penetrate the UDA and find Beth another way," replied Harry. "We never have only one option, Nathan. And he's bound to know somebody, so do your best."

The younger man managed to raise a pained smile, although only briefly. With that, they joined Ruth in the Reception, where she was chatting with the man himself. Kyle McCracken towering over her, running a hand through his neatly trimmed greying hair. Both of them fell silent as Harry and Nathan emerged through the double doors of the breakfast room. Outside, through the main entrance, Harry could see the twin golden orbs of light through the fog – the limousine pulling up outside. It was time to go.

"First Minister," said Harry, extending a hand towards McCracken. "Forgive my not coming to meet you yesterday evening, a last minute emergency cropped up."

The brief flash of curiosity in the First Minister's grey eyes gave Harry a moment of satisfaction. Now, he was bound to needle Nathan for information about that "last minute emergency".

"Not a problem, Sir Harry. Your Lady wife here more than made up for it," he replied in a broad Belfast accent. Those eyes narrowed as they fell upon Nathan. "And this must be Mister Fraser?"

"Ah, yes, Nathan this is the First Minister of Northern Ireland, Kyle McCracken," he introduced, although they already knew each other's names. Turning back to the First Minister, Harry added: "Nathan is one of our finest new recruits, who has already over-seen an operation to neutralise one Britain's most feared far right organisations."

Like Harry, Nathan had extended his hand to shake. But unlike with Harry, McCracken peered at it, barely concealing his contempt. Ruth blushed, her smile turning rigid as though tetanus had suddenly set in. Harry groaned inwardly as he once more became aware that not all of Northern Ireland's bigotry was limited to religion. But once satisfied that his prejudice and contempt had been recognised by all concerned, McCracken finally shook hands. To Harry's mild surprise, he didn't follow the gesture up by wiping the palm said hand down the curtains. Nathan simply pretended he had not noticed anything amiss, and followed the First Minister outside, to where a limo was waiting to take them to Dublin as the brief meeting was brought to a close.

Both Harry and Ruth watched it as it was swallowed by the fog, before returning to the breakfast room. By that time Ros, Lucas and Tariq had also joined them. Silent and restless, they sat and twiddled their thumbs, or paced the length of the walls and pretended to be interested in the portraits. Except for Ros who leaned against one of the single tables, lost in her own thoughts and chewing absentmindedly at the nail of her index finger. She looked up as they entered the room, pushing herself away from the table.

"Harry," she said. "Last night, the PSNI Super we were dealing with faxed over some information about UDA dens around the East Belfast area. If we can get a way in there, I think we might be able to pick something up about Beth."

Getting a way in was the problem, though. One that wasn't as easily solved in Northern Ireland as it was in England. Plus, there were scores of them dotted around the area and only one would be aware of what was happening. Unless they could get one of the Brigadiers to talk, they were on a road to nowhere. Even building up a credible backstory to get themselves in with the UDA would take too long. Unless they had the right cover story.

"Come with me," he said, leading the way to the top table. "Team meeting, now."

While everyone else got settled, Harry marshalled his own thoughts as the details of his plan slowly formed. He looked across the table at Lucas, who had his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal dark blotches of prison tattoo. Another piece of the internal jigsaw fell into place. Before long, they were all seated, they turned to him. For once, he felt like he had a direct answer to give them.

"The Britain First Op was a major success," he began, seeing all expression crease in confusion.

"True," Ros concurred. "But that won't carry over into this Op."

"But, the British far right has always been closely linked to Ulster Paramilitarism. In the eighties, the UDA shared a lot of ties with the National Front and then, in the nineties, along came Combat 18 and then the English Defence League and so on and so forth. Now, Britain First was even founded by an ex-member of the Ulster Volunteer Force, Jim Dowson. Dowson has since severed all links with Britain First. But now that we've wiped out the controversial Britain First leaders who caused the split in the first place, I think Lucas at least can resume his Britain First legend and arrange to meet with the East Belfast Brigadiers in an attempt to restore these historic links between Loyalism and Fascism. There, we have our way in with these people." Harry paused for breath, looking around at them each in turn.

Lucas, especially, looked very pleased with the direction in which they were going. He was grinning, gripping his elbows as he leaned against the breakfast table. But Harry felt that an added note was needed.

"These people say they are loyal to the Queen," he began, gravely. "They call themselves Crown Loyalists. But their bombs and bullets have slaughtered just as many innocent civilians as the IRA's. They seek to control this province, and to kick half of its civilians into the kerb with no rights, no hope of any rights and without recourse to any form of justice. They pose as bigger threat to the safety of this nation as Al-Qaeda and the Provisional IRA, when they were active. Do not be fooled by what they call themselves; they seek to dominate and subjugate. We must stop them."

* * *

A sudden burst of light jolted Beth violently back into consciousness. Screwing up her face and clamping her eyes shut barely worked; with her hands still bound, she couldn't even shield her eyes against the full force. She rolled over on to her front. But fibre glass loft insulation sprouted in tufts between hastily laid floorboards in the attic, she could feel herself breathing it in. Choking, she had to turn her face again before it could lodge in her airwaves. Before long, however, rough hands wrenched her upright and forced her to kneel. The glare of the spotlights was such she feared damage to her retinas. But as soon as her tormentors grew bored of that tactic, they shut the lights off again, replacing it with a single bedside lamp.

After taking a moment to adjust, she was finally able to look up at the men holding her. But her vision was left monochrome after the bright lights. She could still see that they were hooded in balaclavas, and even wore dark glasses over their eyes. Their clothing was also dark: black bomber jackets and dark combat pants, with doc marten boots. All four of them. Pinned to the wall behind them was a large Union Jack flag and a framed photograph of the Queen. They each held AK-47 assault rifles across their chests as they stood in a wide circle around her, looking down in silence at her. Refusing to show fear to these people, she steadied her ragged breathing and looked defiantly back at them. She would not speak. She would not give them anything they could construe as any form of satisfaction.

"Are you Bethany Sarah Bailey?"

The fifth man's voice emanated from the shadows beyond the scope of her vision. She could not tell from where.

"I cannot answer that question," she replied, flatly.

The other four remained silent and motionless. Moments later, a small plastic card was flipped from a far corner of the attic. Her driver's license.

"That's you, isn't it?"

It was, but she wasn't going to make things any easier for them.

"I cannot answer that question."

"You're an agent of MI-5, aren't you?"

"I cannot answer that question."

The accent sounded odd. Ulster, but not Belfast. It was weaker than the rest she had heard. Maybe not local, but resident in the province for a long time. Accents, builds and height was all she could discern, so these were the small identifying details she clung to.

"Do you know the whereabouts of Harry James Pearce and Nathaniel David Fraser?"

Betraying no shock or surprise at hearing two such familiar names, Beth answered robotically: "I cannot answer that question."

There was a moment's pause, during which an assault rifle clunked against the wooden floorboards as one of the men put it down. He strode over to Beth and smacked her hard across the face. The pain was fierce, causing her to cry out involuntarily. But before she could do anything else, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her upright again. A sickening tang of blood could be tasted on her tongue.

"Tell us where Harry Pearce and Nathan Fraser are, and you will be free to go!"

The voice from the shadows grew angry now. But the more they did to her, Beth resolved herself to grow more defiant.

"I will not answer that question!" she spat back at the unseen man.

Although braced for another assault, it did not happen. Her sentence dropped into a silent well, met with nothing short of indifference. Despite her best efforts to remain equally indifferent about them, she couldn't help but wonder if this was some tactic being deployed: good cop; bad cop. But the answer was even more baffling.

"Bethany Sarah Bailey, you are charged with high treason and of aiding and abetting the traitor, Jim McDowell in contravention of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, 1974. You will be held here until your trail, of which you will be notified at a later date."

They left her again. The lights went out fully, plunging her back into darkness. But she could hear the sound of their boots stamping across the wooden flooring, before the attic door was opened and they left via a set of steps connected to the door. It was fixed in place with a pad lock on the other side. Once alone, she resolved to demand a trial by a jury of her peers, under the terms of the Magna Carta of 1215 – two could play at that game. But now that she had a vague idea of what she was up against, she could formulate an escape plan. As well as find out who the "Other One" was, as well as where he was.

* * *

Progress through the foggy mountains was painfully slow. But as they descended to lower ground, the mists finally thinned to the point where the driver could finally accelerate beyond fifteen miles per hour. Nathan watched from the window of the limo as the low-lying Irish countryside opened up to reveal farmlands punctuated by compellingly grim marshy bog lands. Even this low, wisps of mist lingered eerily over the churned black earth. Land devoid of life, but for a lone blackbird flapping from one rotting, weather beaten fence post to another in a quest for worms.

About twenty feet from the roadside, a large Celtic cross stood shrouded in mist in the middle of a field. Wreaths of dying flowers lay scattered at its base, virgin white leaves spattered in rain and mud. Nathan sat up in his seat to get a proper look at it, not that he could from that distance.

"It's a pit grave," said the First Minister.

So far, Kyle McCracken had said precisely nothing. He had spent the journey sat opposite Nathan with his back to the driver, shuffling through papers in his briefcase open on his lap. Now, he closed it and removed his gold-rimmed reading glasses.

"There's over eight hundred of the poor souls in there," he added, glancing at the burial site through the back window behind Nathan – having already passed the site itself.

Nathan felt suddenly cold. "Was it the Great Famine?"

The Minister nodded. This looked like a place where people starved. Nathan could almost see their hungry ghosts crawling through the mists – human sticks, dressed in rags; falling dead where they stood, in the endless barren fields. Meanwhile, the First Minister was gazing contemplatively out of the passenger window, deep in thought.

"There's more in Belfast, did you know that?" he asked, turning once more to Nathan.

"I really don't know much about Irish History, beyond the bare facts," he replied, honestly. "I thought it happened mostly in the Republic, though. In Galway and Mayo."

The Minister raised a reigned smile. "Exactly," he sighed. "Three million people died over the course of three years. Then there were the smaller, sporadic crop failures – the ones even Republicans forget about. You're right, son, I'll give you Mayo. Mayo was the worst hit and there's still abandoned villages there now. But no one stops to consider the Ulster victims. They think the famine stopped where the border lies now, as though the Blight reached Dundalk and thought to itself: 'nah, I'll not bother them Protestant ones.' Thousands of Protestants died and no one cares."

Nathan raised a brow. "Forgive my impertinence, Minister, but when we hear Glasgow Rangers fans chanting their delightful "Famine Song" at matches against Celtic, it sometimes seems the blame for that lies at your own feet. And even that is overlooking my own personal disgust at your obsession over which religion they were. Surely, they were human beings, first and foremost."

At first, he thought he had gone too far. But the Minister was back in deep thought before delivering an even-handed answer.

"True, of course, my tribe has turned the catastrophe into a political football – literally in the example you highlighted – as much as Sinn Fein and the IRA. Those hooligans miss the point and are uneducated about their own history. They do not represent Protestants as a whole. But, my point still stands. Protestant victims are forgotten. When that memorial was put up, the Reverend and I wished to attend and perform the rites befitting a protestant sermon for the dead, alongside the Catholic Priest. Yet, they would not have it. Do you see what I mean? Prejudice, in this province, goes both ways."

Nathan thought on it for a minute. "All right, that was underhand. But they are remembered. Surely that's better than nothing?"

How easy it was for even the greatest of catastrophes to be turned into fodder for political one-upmanship. Nathan found himself agreeing only to bring the distasteful matter to a close. He turned to look out of the window, breathing a sigh of relief when he noted the road signs in Gaelic.

"When did we cross the border?" he asked. "I didn't see anything."

"There is nothing to see," replied the Minister, with another sigh. "There isn't a physical border to speak of. There never has been and, God willing, there never will be. We're well into County Monaghan now, though. Must be some ten miles past."

Nathan relaxed again, letting himself unwind. "You must remember Monaghan well from when the UVF blew it up and killed scores of innocent people."

Harry had told him to needle the man at opportune moments. Although, as soon as he said it, he wondered whether it wasn't so much needling, but pummelling. However, the Minister's expression merely darkened.

"Careful, now," he warned, darkly.

"Then there was Dublin, too. How many killed in that explosion, Minister?"

For a long moment, Kyle McCracken fixed Nathan with a calculating look. A smile spreading across his face. "And who stood by and let the Dublin and Monaghan bombs happen, I wonder?"

Touché, Nathan thought to himself. "You need evidence-"

"Oh, so you know what I'm talking about then? You didn't need me to spell that one out!" Kyle retorted. "Collusion between Loyalist Paramilitaries and the Crown Security Forces is an inconvenient fact for you people. Especially now, in this new age of tolerance and understanding where no one is allowed to offend anyone else – never bloody mind blowing them up. Things were done differently, back then. Rules were bent. Lines were there to be crossed, not towed. And let's be honest, I don't think your dirty little secrets would have stood you in much stead back then, either."

Nathan recalled what Harry had told him before he left that morning: that getting people riled meant he was succeeding in getting under their skin. So he slouched a little lower in his seat and continued to enjoy the ride through the Irish countryside.

"If you'd looked into me properly, Minister, you would see that I have no dirty secret," he pointed out, casually. "Why, only last night my boss – Sir Harry, who you met this morning – was asking after my boyfriend's health and congratulating me on my progress since kicking drugs. You see, the big difference is, despite all that, I never actually killed anyone. So when we're talking about who got the bigger second chance in life here, I think you win hands down every time."

Finally, he succeeding in cracking the First Minister.

"I found the Lord after what I did-"

But Nathan cut him off. "Why is God always hanging around jail cells? You people are always finding her there. Anyone would think it sat well with the Parole Board, or something!"

He grinned at the Minister's incredulous reaction.

"_Her?"_ he repeated. "You know, I wish I had met you when you were still an addict. I think I would have liked you better before the holier than thou attitude sunk in."

"But, if I had met you when you were still a terrorist, would I have made it as far as I have in this conversation?" he asked, innocently.

The Minister sighed heavily. "That's just something you're going to have to ponder for the rest of your days."

"Shame," replied Nathan. "Nothing will change the facts of who we are."

"I didn't say anything to the contrary," the Minister said. "I'm a terrorist; you're a sodomite. I'll be sure to give you a wave when we're passing in hell."

As they spoke, their journey continued at a greater pace. They had been on one motorway, but had to turn off it again due to an accident. Now, they were speeding through open countryside having just passed Cavan town, heading towards central Ireland and, eventually, Dublin itself. The way was flat and clear, with no sign of further obstruction. Recalling Harry's advice once more, Nathan decided to ease off the Minister and let him simmer for a while. Meanwhile, he turned to watch Ireland zooming past his window in an emerald blur. Naturally, he was recording everything for Harry to go over once he returned from the Dail. Every so often, he could feel the gaze of the Minister boring into him, but he remained silent.

"So, what was this emergency that Sir Harry spoke of this morning?"

"Need to know," Nathan murmured, still looking out of the window.

"And we're going to pass the remainder of this journey in a sulk, are we?" he asked again, tilting his head in wonder.

"I'm not sulking!" Nathan countered, turning his full attention to the Minister. "But we are having a few problems with some of your old colleagues in the UDA."

Before he could go any further, Nathan's phone rang. He dragged it out of his pocket in a hurry. Harry's name flashed up on the screen and he jabbed the answer button quickly, cutting off any reply from the Minister. Without a moment's hesitation, Harry's frantic tones sounded from the other end of the line: "There's a bomb under the car; get out now and run!"

Cursing heavily, Nathan reacted swiftly and pounded on the driver's partition window. "Stop the car! Stop the car now!"

Immediately, the brakes were slammed, throwing Nathan forwards, almost into the Minister's lap. But he pulled himself up quickly and kicked open the passenger door before the vehicle had even properly halted.

"It's a limpet mine, isn't it?" the Minister asked, rhetorically. "Shit!"

The car stopped perilously close to a grass verge, meaning they had to squeeze themselves out before running to the other side to try and help the driver who was struggling with his seat belt. Both Nathan and the Minister were wrenching on the door handle and shouting at the man to try kicking it open from his side of the door.

"Damn windows are bullet proof!" The Minister snapped as his briefcase bounced off the windscreen without as much as a dent of damage done.

Finally, the man burst free, swearing loudly as he emerged. Without wasting another precious moment, Nathan and the Minister ran full pelt down the asphalt and vaulted a low metal barrier just as the deafening explosion rent the air around them. All Nathan could feel was the dull thump as he was thrown forwards, hitting the ground with a searing pain in his leg.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	11. Friday, Bloody Friday

**Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**Bloody Friday really did happen. I've taken the sequencing, times and locations of all 26 bombs from eye-witness testimony as recorded in Peter Taylor's book "Provos: the IRA and Sinn Fein" and BBC Northern Ireland's 2012 documentary "Bloody Friday". The characters are fictional.**

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**Chapter Eleven: Friday, Bloody Friday.**

**Friday, 21****st**** July, 1972. Belfast City, 2.10pm.**

The afternoon shifts were always quiet, for Eileen Travers. Especially hot, sunny afternoons like this one. A rare event in Northern Ireland, but the summer was fast becoming a stifling heatwave. No. It was the quiet, small hours of the morning when the desperate, the lonely and the hopeless souls of Belfast hit rock bottom and dialled Eileen's number in one final, last ditch attempt to reach out to another human being. And Eileen prided herself on always being there to answer those calls; to be the faceless voice on the other end of the line, talking and coaxing people through the darkest hours of their lives. Her family couldn't understand it; her husband couldn't even bear to hear her talking about it. But the Samaritans had been her calling.

So she was appreciative for the dull hours, when no one was considering topping themselves. It felt like everyone was happy. To pass the time, she tidied up the drop-in room and made sure the tea and coffee was at full capacity before setting the kettle to boil for herself. It was as she carried the steaming mug into her small room that the phone rang. As always, her heart pounded as she rushed to answer it. Sometimes, people only called her after they had swallowed a bottle of pills; or their wrists were already open and their lives were draining away down the plugholes. Most couldn't even talk when they called, so she would sit there and say silly, inconsequential things just to break the ice and win their trust. Every call was different; every person unique.

"Hello, this is the Samaritans," she answered in her soft, lilting voice. "Do you need somebody to talk to?"

The man on the other end wasted no time. "This is P. O'Neil. There's a car bomb parked outside Smithfield Bus Station in a blue Vauxhall; registration AZ185K."

This had happened before, as well. The paramilitaries called helplines and companies they knew would have no traces on the line. But still Eileen's heart raced. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" her mind screamed at her as she scrabbled for a pen and paper to note down the bomb warning. Outwardly, she kept her cool.

"Please can you repeat that and tell me when the bomb is due to detonate?"

Her hands were shaking; heartbeat racing as the line went dead. Shocked, she listened to the hum of the disconnected line for a moment as it all sank in.

"Shit!" she cried out, a second later. It was a hopelessly inadequate warning.

She stabbed at the button to make another call, before dialling 999.

"Car bomb!" she shouted at the operator. "Car bomb outside Smithfield Bus Station! He didn't say when it would detonate, but gave the name P. O'Neil. He gave me the reg, but wouldn't repeat. I think it was AK888 something…. Oh, shit I don't know!"

"It's okay, madam, we're sending a team over there now."

With that, the phone line went dead as the emergency line was cleared. Eileen leaned back in her chair, trying to get her breath back. In her head, she placed her family: the kids in summer school; husband in work at Eastwood's Garage; parents at home. No one near Smithfield. All the same, she reached over to the radio and switched on the news as already reports of the explosion came.

Kyle McCracken directed the hose at the small fire burning in the outhouse. The bomb had gone off in an enclosed yard, causing a mass of damage to the building itself, but there were no human fatalities. He breathed a sigh of relief as the flames were swiftly doused, enabling the RUC men to take over and gather what evidence they could. He nodded at the Constable in charge as he returned to his colleagues in the Fire Service. Even the buses pulling into Smithfield had not been delayed. It was all very superficial, by bomb standards.

"All right, boss?" he asked, looking up at the man behind the wheel of the fire engine. "I think that's it, isn't it?"

"Happy days, son," the boss replied, cheerfully. "See, it's not that bad is it? Nothing to be nervous about."

Kyle raised a smile as they reeled in the hose. He was relatively new to the fire service. So far, he'd doused one chip pan fire, rescued a cat and cut an injured driver free from a wrecked car. It hadn't been too bad at all, but this was his first ever bomb. His second bomb came precisely six minutes later, causing he and his colleagues to flash each other a worried look at the surprising turn of events before rushing back into their engine.

"Brookvale Avenue, now!"

The boss called out as the siren screamed into life and they pulled out at full speed. Before they even made it to the site of the second bomb, the third had detonated at York Road railway station. They stopped at York Road, seeing as they were passing it anyway as the bomb went off. The force of the explosion almost tipped their engine over. By the time they got there, people were running, screaming from the carnage and the roof had caved in completely. Thick palls of smoke rose into the clear blue skies, blotting out the summer sun.

Two minutes after they arrived at York Road, bombs had exploded also on the Crumlin Road; two more exploded at the same time on Oxford Street and Great Victoria Street, at precisely 2.48pm. Two minutes later, the Ulster Bank on Limestone Road had been hit, too. By 2.52, the railway station on Botanic Avenue had been bombed, along with the Queen Elizabeth Bridge and the Liverpool Ferry Terminus. Kyle's team were being sent to each and every site, but they had no hope of dousing the flames of one before the other was hit. Pandemonium reigned as people fled. He could see them, running from one bomb site and straight into the path of another explosion; human beings engulfed in thick black smoke as another bomb detonated. The air was filled with screams of the injured punctuated with crisp, sharp explosions; the blood of the dead, soon flowing down the gutters. Human entrails blasted through railings, entwined like vines round metal bars. The city turned into a slaughterhouse.

Kyle felt himself spinning round and round on a carousel of carnage as they raced from bombsite to bombsite. On one site, he had to hose the remains of a human head off a wall, before finding a torso lying in the middle of the street. Between 2.57pm and 3.05pm, another seven bombs had exploded across the city, bringing the total to seventeen. The eighteenth bomb was the Cavehill Road, closely followed at 3.12pm with a nineteenth at Eastwood's Garage on the Donegal Road.

Dazed; numbed, Kyle and his team raced over to the garage, where they helped shovel human meat into clear plastic bags before attempting to douse the flames engulfing the building. _It's just meat_, Kyle told himself, _only meat_. That was it. There was nothing even recognisably human about the scorched flesh they were shovelling up. But it stank like burning pork. A woman lay dead on the pavement outside the garage, her skirt riding up her bloodied thighs, revealing white underpants. Kyle rearranged her clothing so she would not be ashamed; a small, pitiful act to try and restore some dignity to the dead.

After the Eastwood's bomb, came two more at 3.15pm on the Stewartstown Road and a railway footbridge. Five minutes after that, the Lisburn Road railway station was blown up and, at 3.30pm, the twenty-sixth bomb detonated on the Grosvenor Road. The explosions shook the entire city, the earth literally trembling beneath Kyle's feet; the endless smashing of glass as device after device sucked in the oxygen to create a deadly vacuum.

Across the city, the air was filled with smoke and dust from bombed out buildings; the sirens screamed mercilessly as emergency vehicles sped from one place to another. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, police and firemen dug through the rubble with their bare hands; some bloodied and caked in filth, but still they searched for survivors of the day's atrocities. War-hardened British soldiers prowled through the streets, guns trained in every direction did their best to marshal terrified citizens to safety – only to realise there was no safe place. Belfast was a warzone and the explosions came from each and every direction.

Kyle McCracken stayed in the city centre until the last fire had been doused. By that time, a strange silence settled over the city that now lay in ruins. Like him, it felt empty, voided and traumatised. He returned to the fire station, where his frantic girlfriend was waiting to take him home. Their route took them past several sites where the bombs went off, including some of the ones he couldn't get to as they happened. The ambulance crews were still there, even in the early hours of the morning. They got home to catch the news on TV, where the wife of one of the people killed was being hassled by BBC reporters for a statement. Eileen Travers, whose husband Kyle himself had scraped off the road outside Eastwood Garage, turned her tearful, mascara streaked face to the camera, and pleaded for the violence to end. Before her worried family could bundle her away, the newly made widow had one more thing to say: "To the bombers, I want you to know, for the sake of peace in this land: I forgive you."

_You stupid, naïve bitch_, Kyle thought to himself.

The Reverend, who he had dismissed as a trouble making demagogue, was absolutely right. The IRA would not stop until every Protestant was human mush, strewn across the streets of Belfast in a bloodied heap. He knew it; he could see it now. This was a war and Catholics were their enemy. He could point his fire hose at all the bombsites in the city, and make not one jot of difference. Or, he could point a gun at a Catholic's head and stop another bomb altogether. As the news cameras cut from the grieving widow to the recordings of exploding bombs, he knew what he would do next. He would join the scores of other young protestant men, flocking to the UDA and the UVF.

* * *

Forty years on from that most brutal of days, Kyle McCracken placed one hand on the shoulder of a young MI5 officer, kneeling beside the dead body of another bomb victim. Nathan jolted out of his reverie, letting the dead man's wrist fall limp to the road. A few minutes previously, he was their driver. Although clearly still struggling with the driver's sudden transition from living human being to dead meat, lying in the road, Nathan was still in command of his senses.

"There's no pulse," he said, looking up the Minister desperately. "He was right behind us. I don't understand…"

"You've got to leave him," said the Minister. "He's gone."

They had lost their phones in the explosion and they had no idea where they were. What was left of their car was now engulfed in flames and releasing a cloud of smoke and petrol fumes that made their eyes water. But still Nathan knelt by the dead driver. Eventually, he removed his coat and laid it over the dead man's face before struggling to his feet. The First Minister extended his hand, helping him up.

"We need a new car," he stated, blankly.

The Minister laughed. "Seriously?"

To his relief, the agent laughed too. The uncomprehending shock broke as he smiled, the first sign the trauma was beginning to break and he would soon bounce back. Next, was keeping him busy.

"Come on then, 007, what's next? What's the plan?"

Nathan drew a deep breath, scratched his head as he looked both ways along the deserted country road and set off back the way they had come.

"We'll go this way, find a car to hotwire and come back this way," he explained. "We can't leave the body behind, so we can pick him up then continue to Dublin."

"So, we're off to meet the Taoiseach in a stolen car with a body in the boot?"

Nathan's expression darkened into a frown of consternation. "That's really bad, isn't it?"

"I think it's fucking hilarious," the Minister replied, setting off down the road with Nathan in tow. "But then, I'm used to this place."

"Used to it?" Nathan asked.

The Minister merely smiled. "I was a fireman before I was a terrorist," he pointed out. "I've seen my share of bombs."

It felt strange to him. As Bloody Friday unfolded, the adrenaline had kicked in so heavily he felt like he was moving through someone else's nightmare, or in some Hollywood disaster movie. It was only afterwards that the small details came back to him: the way the explosions resounded across the city, followed by the seemingly endless tinkling of thousands of shards of glass falling through the air; the way the earth shook…. The way human innards lay blasted across the streets. Every sound, smell, colour and detail was as alive in him today as it was forty years previously. Sometimes, if he walked down Belfast high street on a warm summer's day, he could hear them going off; could hear the screaming sirens and the smell the burning flesh. To this day, the smell of cooking pork made him vomit.

"Well, all right then," he ceded. "Maybe you never really do get used to it. But at least there's a car looking lonely up the road, there."

Nathan paused in the road, following the line of the Minister's gaze. A lone Ford Escort that looked at least twenty years old was sitting by the side of the road, at the edge of some woods. Someone walking their dog, probably. They didn't have time to hang around and find out.

"Here goes," said Nathan, nodding to the vehicle. "I'll put out the back window, keep the glass off the front seats."

* * *

Stormont was a grand old building. All limestone sourced from Devon and faux-Roman architecture, mixed with a little Victorian gothic. Huge and sprawling, set in even more huge and sprawling grounds. A drive way that was almost a mile long led through beautifully cultivated lawns and columns of trees, now burnished amber and scarlet – the colours of autumn. Harry took it all in from the top of the hill, from where he could look out over the whole city of Belfast.

The famous steps leading up the Parliament building themselves proved somewhat disappointing. Despite all those famous photographs of politicians posing on them as they entered ground breaking talks were actually gated and bolted closed, barring access. They were just an elaborate prop. Harry shrugged inwardly and set off at a leisurely pace through the grounds. At that hour, they were empty with the exception of a few dog walkers. All the political action had been transferred to Hillsborough, so not even stray journalists hung around in an attempt to sniff out a story.

He passed the statue of Edward Carson, pausing to look up at it. Set at the top of the hill, he was posing as though sticking his middle finger up at the entire city. But then, Harry surmised, that was the general function of the original Stormont Assembly, all those decades ago. Walking on, he paused every so often to take in other features. A river even ran through the grounds of the estate. Another statue, of a woman on bended knee named "the Gleaner", meant nothing to Harry. After her, came a memorial to all those killed in the Somme. Just a simple, uncomplicated plaque set in a quiet area of the grounds. Further on, however, was the spot he was looking for.

Sitting down on a wooden bench overlooking the large water feature, Harry turned his attention to the sculpture set in the middle, on a round stone platform. Two figures, a man and a woman, on their knees and embracing across a divide of barbed wire, their bronze heads buried in the other's shoulder. Stones were scattered around the base, half-submerged in water, with the names of cities engraved on them: Hiroshima, Coventry, Berlin and Belfast. The plaque bore just one word: "Reconciliation".

"Is this thing poisoned?"

Suddenly jolted out of his reverie, Harry whirled around to find Sean Mallon brandishing an umbrella at him. It was his umbrella, the one he left at the Crown Bar the day before. Someone had clearly been dusting off the James Bond box sets.

"If it wasn't before, I bet it is now," he retorted.

Reunited with his umbrella, Harry made room for Mallon on the bench.

"Thanks for the warning," he said.

"Did you get the Minister and your man out?"

"We're not sure; we lost contact with them," Harry admitted. "But all the same, we appreciated the warning."

The talks hadn't even properly begun yet, but they had lost one agent and now, possibly, a second. For a long moment, the two men sat in silence. But the newcomer could tell the other was lost in self-recrimination.

"You had to get him out of that car, Harry," he said. "Even a mobile phone signal is enough to set those mines off. If they got stuck behind someone using a phone in their car, it would have blown there and then."

Harry sighed heavily. "But I had to call him on his mobile, otherwise it was a case of letting them continue in the hope they didn't run into a mobile signal. The car would have blown to the moon as soon as they reached Dublin."

"All this new technology has opened many doors when it comes to messing with the heads of people like you, I'm afraid," Mallon pointed out.

"So who was it? The Real IRA?"

Mallon nodded. "There's more dissident Republicans than we know what to do with. But the Real IRA are the main ones. They're the same as the Continuity IRA, so don't let that throw you off the scent."

After that morning's attack on the First Minister, all known cells were under renewed surveillance. Harry had organised it with the Chief Constable and Special Branch that morning. He had also been handed some files on UDA and UVF cells still active in the Province. He took one in particular out of his briefcase and handed it to Mallon.

"Andrew Gillan," he said. "Any ideas who he is?"

Mallon glanced down at the file in his hands, studying the picture of the middle aged man on the front. He was about their age, maybe a little older.

"He's UDA," stated Mallon, flatly. "I know we're all paramilitaries, but we don't all live in a big house together, Harry."

"You must admit, that would be an interesting sharing arrangement," Harry replied. "Of course, I'm perfectly aware that you're diametrically opposed to the UDA, but you know who their commanders are, surely?"

The Ulster Defence Association were active across the whole province, and had been since the early seventies. They had carried out assassinations of IRA men, left bombs in Catholic areas and organised shoot-outs in Catholic businesses. Regardless, it had taken the British Government until August 1992 to declare them an illegal terrorist organisation. A small fact not lost on Sean Mallon, who gestured to the file in his hand, holding up so Harry could see it.

"You could have had all the information you needed on this character if you'd woken up to the UDA sooner," he pointed out, not bothering to disguise the anger in his voice. "Did you think they were on your side? Did you think they were like you: fighting for Queen and Country?"

Harry kept his own irritation in check. "Of course not. But listen, I am just one man and I did all I could to get the UDA proscribed and it was my analysts who compiled the relevant reports that finally succeeded. However…" he paused, couching his terms. "Because of our slow reactions, we are somewhat lacking on the intelligence front."

Twenty years had passed since their paramilitary status had finally been achieved. But the delay was still being felt. Meanwhile, Mallon handed back the file with a sigh.

"I can ask around," he said. "But you have to understand, the IRA have no contact with the Loyalist paramilitaries directly. I doubt there's anyone on my side of the fence who can help."

It was as Harry suspected, meaning Ros and Lucas' proposed infiltration of the East Belfast UDA was their only option. With that, their meeting ended and they went their separate ways once more. Harry continuing down the length of the driveway, where his car was waiting; Mallon, back towards Stormont, where a Sinn Fein delegation was beginning to assemble before the talks began that evening. Harry shuddered to think what could go wrong once the talks actually began properly – something dependent entirely on the survival of the First Minister.

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**Thanks again for reading, and reviews would be welcome if you have a minute. It's highly unlikely I'll be able to update again before the Christmas, so have a great holiday. Thank you.**


	12. Dublin

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Apologies for the late update, but Christmas and New Year involved a lot of travel and whatnot, Thanks again!

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**Chapter Twelve: Dublin**

Delegates arrived in a rapid succession of glittering black motorcades. The great and the good stepping of their vehicles to be greeted by a bank of journalists, news crews and flashing cameras that had congregated at the gates of the Castle. Ruth watched over them from the safety of a third floor window that overlooked the front lawns. Representatives from Sinn Fein, the DUP, the SDLP, the Alliance Party and the British Government all following the other as they made their way into the talks. All the main party leaders, their elected MPs and a flock of Stormont MLAs rapidly populated the grandiose halls and galleries of the Castle as soon as they made it passed the sound-bite ravenous press. All the while, Ruth still had no idea whether the First Minister was even dead or alive after that morning's bomb scare; Harry was still at Stormont dealing with his mysterious asset and no one had been able to reach Nathan's mobile, meaning he too could be dead for all they knew. Inwardly, she swore a lot. Outwardly, she put up more front than Blackpool promenade and swept down the stairwell to greet the Home Secretary.

Although that morning's early dip in the lake was still fresh in Ruth's mind, all other crises had driven it from her consciousness. She could see William Towers; could look him in the eye long enough to catch his attention and flash what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Before she could reach Towers, however, she was circumvented by the harassed looking Deputy First Minister; a haggard looking Sinn Fein MP who had spent most of his youth on the run from the Government he now served; only to them make a pompous show of refusing to take his seat in Westminster while, in the background, still making use of its offices and funding. To his credit, his intrusion into her orbit made him somewhat self-conscious as he straightened his tie and flushed deeply.

"I apologise for the interruption, but I want you to know that I have been fully informed of what's happening. Have you been able to reach Kyle? What am I to tell the PM if Kyle doesn't arrive?"

He spoke so quietly that Ruth had to lean to one side to pick up what he was saying. She looked at him quizzically, trying to see if there was a glimmer of murderous hope in his watery grey eyes, now lined and sagging with age and stress. Strangely, there was nothing but a hang-dog look of utter defeat. He looked like a man who had sold out his principles after being crushed by the weight of the inevitable. Ruth had to remind herself of one small grain of truth: the simple fact that this man and McCracken were even willing to work together was, in itself, a minor miracle. If they could do it, so could she.

"We're currently in the process of trying to make contact," she replied, still looking over at Towers. "There is no cause for alarm at this present time, Deputy First Minister, and you will be informed as soon as we hear anything. Until that time, we carry on as normal."

While she had been talking, Towers had made his way over to them. He shook hands with the Deputy First Minister – an act that not so long ago had commanded the attention of the worlds media – before discreetly drawing Ruth to one side.

"Never mind him, where the bloody hell has Harry got to?" asked Towers, as soon as they were free of ex-IRA men.

"He's at Stormont speaking to the PSNI and an asset," she explained, closing them into a closet. "One of our agents is missing in action and another..."

She trailed off, thinking of exactly how to explain the situation with the First Minister.

"We got a bomb warning early this morning," she continued on a different track. "A hit on the First Minister. We're still waiting for news."

Her mobile phone was tucked down the front of her dress while she marshalled the arriving delegates into the main conference room. She couldn't afford to be out of contact for a minute, regardless of what else was happening. Meanwhile, Towers' expression had transformed into one of stony resignation.

"Oh God, nothing is ever simple with you people, is it?" he sighed heavily.

Deciding that the question was probably rhetorical, Ruth decided it was best not to answer it. Instead, she painted on her best smile and reeled off the briefing she had agreed upon with Ros.

"Honestly, it's under control Home Secretary. We've sent a rescue team to the last known location of the Home Secretary already, but chances are they have already moved on. I'm sure we'll hear soon. In the meantime, Harry is tracking down the organisation that did this. In the meantime, we carry on as normal."

"Good God, if the First Minister is dead there will be hell to pay!" Towers blustered, chest puffed out indignantly.

It was in moments like these that Ruth always remembered just how insignificant the lives of their agents were. She doubted whether Towers even knew about Nathan or the man driving the car, less still whether he really cared. They were out of sight and out of mind, expected to risk their lives so this rabble could carry on threatening each others in safety and security. Her smile faded, just as her phone rang.

"Excuse me," she said, turning her back on the Home Secretary to subtly extract the device from her bra. One of the perils of forgetting one's handbag. Frowning at the unrecognised number, she jabbed the answer button. "Hello?"

"Hello Ruth? It's Nathan. We're in Dublin with the Toaiseach!"

Suddenly, it was as though the sun had broken through the stormy clouds and everything was once more right with the world. With a deep sigh of relief, she turned back to Towers to relay the good news. While Towers steadied himself against the wall, Ruth checked her watch. It was only eleven thirty AM – they weren't even that late.

"How did you manage that?" she asked, impressed.

The pause at the opposite end of the line suggested that the solution to their bombed out car had been unconventional.

"Don't worry about that now," she hurriedly added. "Just get the First Minister through his public engagements and get them all back here as quick as you can."

* * *

Nathan didn't even have to worry about that. Once the First Minister had been dropped off on the corner of Kildare Street, close to the Irish Parliament buildings, he had taken their stolen Ford Escort (complete with body in the boot) straight to the Taoiseach's personal Garda team for due process. Meanwhile, a more fitting mode of transport had been hastily summoned to convey the First Minister through the gates of Parliament building itself for the benefit of waiting journalists.

From a distance, Nathan watched as the soundly Protestant Loyalist First Minister shook hands with the soundly Catholic Irish Taoiseach with a profound sense of relief. The two men then vanished into the Taoiseach's private residence for an even more private meeting, leaving Nathan free to roam the streets of Dublin in search of a clean phone to contact Ruth. The call ended as he leaned against the barrier of O'Connell Bridge, close to the equally famous O'Connell Street. Beneath his feet, the river Liffey flowed through the city, towards the mouth of the Irish Sea, passing the Guinness Factory as it went. He was almost disappointed that the river's waters were not black, as so often claimed.

With over an hour to kill before the return journey to Belfast, Nathan found himself curious about the bustling capital city he now found himself in. It looked beautiful in the winter sun. Even what little he had seen on his way in had been packed with cultural reference points that resonated deep in his psyche. They had passed Trinity College and the splendid town house once occupied by James Joyce; while Oscar Wilde's drab, red brick former residence proved surprisingly dull. Not far from where he walked, the GPO building once seized by the IRA during the war of independence was located, still pock-marked by ancient British bullets. Sculptures, water features and art installations dotted the main streets and swarms of tourists crowded every corner café. There was a vibrancy and buzz about Dublin that even London sorely lacked.

_Ollie would love it_, he thought to himself.

A thought that brought him to a sudden standstill in the middle of the street. Suddenly confronted by both an idea and a window of free time in which to enact it, he ducked down a near side street, away from the noise of the city to make another phone call. While the phone he was connecting to rang, he checked his watch and hoped that the office's inhabitants had not decided on an early lunch.

"Missing Persons department. How can I help?"

Nathan breathed a sigh of relief. "Natasha, is that you? It's Nathan Jones here."

The girl on the other end gasped. "Nathan! Claire's been ringing and ringing you. Where the hell are you?"

"Not with Ollie, if that's what you're thinking," he replied.

"Well where is he? We're going nuts here and this really isn't like him; he's not been in all week and not so much as a phone call-"

"I don't know where he is and I'm stuck in Dublin for a business meeting," he cut over her. "So I need Claire's help, can you put me through?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, silence broken only by the crackle of the bad line before Natasha on reception agreed. A muffled click later and the line rang again. Seconds later another, older woman answered. He could visualise Claire McGarry sat in her shabby office, complete with over-stuffed, circa 1970 filing cabinet whose drawers physically could not close. Battered computer, coated in multi-coloured post-its, like a scaled beast, bearing messages from anything between ten minutes to five years ago.

Following her barked command for an immediate explanation, Nathan hurriedly disgorged all he knew about second in command's unexplained absence. What little that was.

"Shit Nathan!" Claire eventually replied. "This is not the kind of irony I appreciate. What on earth have you gotten mixed up in now?"

"Nothing! I promise!" he could feel the disbelief from across the Irish Sea. "But look, I just remembered something, wasn't he looking into the whereabouts of some kid from Northern Ireland?"

"It rings a bell," she said.

In the background, he could hear her tapping at her keyboard. While he waited, he started panicking about whether there was enough credit on the phone for this international call that stretched out interminable as Claire seemed to check every record on their database.

"No," she finally said, dejectedly. "Sorry, Nate, nothing and no one from Northern Ireland. But Ollie was looking at someone who vanished in Northern Ireland. Englishman. Seventeen. Last seen in North Belfast, Crumlin Road army barracks in January 1976. But that was three months ago now. It's a cold case. Very cold."

Nathan's hopes faded quicker than the thirty euro credit on the phone.

"It's probably nothing. But what was his name?"

"Andrew Gillen. Seventeen years old and a new recruit in the British Army. Last seen in Belfast's Crumlin Road army barracks on January 6th, 1976. He was reported missing three days later by Military Intelligence Officer, Paul Kendall."

"Paul Kendall? Are you sure?"

Suddenly breathless, Nathan pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning against as though about to pounce on the scrawny cat that crossed his path.

"That's what it says here," she replied. "The only oddity is that Kendall himself was reported missing not long after."

"Yes. Yes, I know. Thanks for your help Claire; see you soon."

Before he could end the call, she cut in again. "Nathan, keep us informed won't you? We're all really worried about Ollie at the moment and I get the sneaking feeling there's more to this than you're letting on."

Nathan drew a deep, steadying breath. "I don't know, Claire and that's the truth of it."

"Tasha said you're in Dublin just now?"

"Yeah, I'll be in Ireland for the whole week."

"Well, stay in touch. I need to know what's happening. Call round the house when you get back, okay? I'll feed you."

Nathan raised a pained smile. "Thanks, Claire. Will do. Take this number and call me back, if you dig anything up yourself."

The call ended, leaving Nathan once more alone in the side street and struggling to contain a frantic need to get back to Belfast as soon as possible. An urge frustrated further by the fact that, by the time he found his way back to Kildare Street, the First Minister was still having his photograph taken besides the graves of dead IRA men.

* * *

Harry slipped back into Hillsborough through he back door, by passing the sculleries and kitchens and completely avoiding the swarms of politicians. On the back stairs, he could hear the buzz of their voices emanating from the conference room on the ground floor. But only the team, listening in above, would be able to pick out what they were actually saying, or gage how much progress was really being made. He would be briefed on it later.

Meanwhile, he emerged on to the third floor landing. Through double doors, he opened on to a long and narrow corridor lined with a blue carpet, worn at the edges with age. Lined with closed and locked doors the length of both sides, he ignored them all and headed towards the far end. There was no noise at all here, except for Tariq who was undercover pretending to be a room attendant; the master key hanging from a metal loop on his belt. He was fixing bugs in the rooms soon to be occupied by Loyalist and Unionist politicians. If they wanted to pick up chatter about their affiliated paramilitaries, this would be the best way to do it. Besides, they had the Republicans covered the day before and the loyalists had been getting away with it for far too long.

"Are they done?" asked Harry, nodding to the room Tariq emerged from.

"Just about. How long have I got left?"

"They could be up any minute, so get a move on. Where are Ros and Lucas?"

Ideally, they would have been out there helping him. But Beth's abduction had thrown them all into disarray and they still had the talks to deal with. Tariq gestured to a room further down the corridor.

"Through those doors, there's a cleaner's store room to the left, opposite room 52. They're in there."

Harry left the techie to get on with his job. Disconcerted that a guest room was so close to where they were setting up surveillance equipment unnerved him. So first, he checked that room. The door opened to a squat and cramped room with two single beds, bolted to the floorboards. The mattresses had been dragged on to the floor and pushed up against each other. It was more like a prison cell than a hotel room.

"Not exactly Claridges, is it?"

"Ros!"

She emerged from the equally cramped store room opposite the guest room. Nose wrinkled, she sidestepped him to enter and ducked down to drag a laptop case out from under the bare bed frame.

"Good God, are they making you sleep in here?" he asked, taking a second look round.

He would rather it was her and Lucas than anyone else.

"You know me, Harry, never one to complain," she replied, breezily. "Anyway, Nathan's on his way back with the First Minister and he says he needs to see you. Urgently."

After what happened with Beth, Harry had been inwardly bracing himself for more bad news. So the fact that Nathan was coming back at all was siezed upon immediately as a sign that something, somewhere, was finally going right. Retrieving the files from inside his jacket, he dropped them on top of the laptop case that Ros had just dragged out from under the bed. She looked from them to him and back again.

"The leadership of the UDA," he said, allowing a faint smile to play across his face. "Sean Mallon has no idea who they are, but that doesn't come as a big surprise. But we at least have a name. Andrew Gillan."

Still kneeling by the bed frame, Ros cautiously lifted the file and flipped open the cover. Her expression shadowed by a frown, she glanced up at him again.

"There isn't even a photo," she remarked. "How can we be sure it's not just an empty legend?"

"For now, we can't," he admitted. "So, when you and Lucas go undercover with these people that's something I'll need you to find out."

Unable to do any more with the information at that time, Ros slid the file into her bedside drawer for safe keeping.

"When can we start, Harry? Lucas is tearing his hair out here and I'm not doing much better myself."

From years of bitter experience with these people, Harry knew he could not afford to go charging in. Every last detail needed planning; then back-up plans to boot. It was something they needed to discuss as a team.

"I'll call a meeting as soon as Nathan gets back," he assured her. "We do this properly, or we'll lose Beth permanently."

* * *

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome.


	13. The Big If

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: The Big 'If.'**

Two new Limousines drew to a halt outside Hillsborough's front entrance. The castle itself about to take on its unique role as pretty backdrop to the historical photo opportunity that was about to unfold in roughly five minutes time. Sat in the back seat of the first vehicle, Nathan squinted up to the skies and silently cursed the overcast skies that would inevitably sap some of the glossy sheen from the moment he had risked his neck to bring to pass. Nevertheless, prior to vacating the car, he turned to the First Minister and breathed a sigh of relief.

"This is it then," he said.

The second limousine, the one with the Irish Taoiseach in the back, drew level with theirs.

"We've made it," replied the Minister. "Thanks to some quick thinking from both of us … Well, mostly you."

Nathan smiled. "Good of you to say so, Minister."

A few feet away, a third previously unseen vehicle came to a rest also. Out of the back came the British Prime Minister, briefly drawing the attention of both Nathan and the Minister. The moment really had come, and only an hour later than scheduled. It was no big deal; these things happened.

Kyle McCracken looked back at Nathan and extended his hand. "I suspect our paths will cross again before the week is done. But just in case."

Nathan grasped his hand and they shook, willingly and gladly. "Good luck, Minister."

They didn't agree with each other; they didn't approve of each other, but they understood each other.

"You too, and thank you."

Nathan stepped out beneath a gloomy sky that threatened rain at any minute. Brisk winds made the first few tentative drops feel like ice as they were blown into his face. Still, he rounded the corner of the Castle and paused, just out of sight of the waiting photographers. With his back to the wall and his gaze directed at the distant mountain range, he listed to the commotion breaking out just beyond the range of his vision. The air suddenly filled with the clicking of many cameras, even a flash of silver light showing through the grey gloom of the afternoon and a buzz of journalist's voices as they called out to the three leaders as they finally came together. Familiar voices that he'd only ever heard on the news before addressed the throng of news crews and, suddenly, it was over. Three half-minute sound bites from each of the politicians, and it was done. After everything he had been through to make it happen, it felt to Nathan like really bad sex. An anti-climax ringing hollow.

Whatever it was, it was done and there was no time to linger between this phase of the Op and the next.

* * *

There was one vacant room left. One with a trestle table set up in the middle; an empty fireplace that had been choked with cement and a forlorn looking rubber plant occupying one corner. Harry glanced it over while Ruth leafed through the files open in front of her on their table. Ros and Lucas sat with their heads together at the far end of the table, conversing low and conspiratorially while they waited for Tariq to finish sweeping the room for any devices planted either before or since their arrival. All the latest mod cons not being his strong point, Harry was content to let the resident techie do what he was hired for.

Meanwhile, outside the large narrow windows, the first smatterings of a fresh wave of rain had begun to streak the glass. The wind was gathering momentum, too. He could hear it whistling through the rafters; draughts seeping in seemingly through the very brickwork. They would all catch their deaths if they remained too long in there, but as needs must when the devil was at the wheel. Ruth's laptop, sitting between them on the table, flicked to the screensaver, prompting her to reach out one impatient hand to stab at the space bar.

"There's nothing here."

Her tone was distant; talking, but not to anyone in particular.

"That's impossible; there must be something," he retorted, shivering against another draught. "We've been watching the UDA since 1992. We know who their ruling council is; we know who their brigadiers are and yet our new friend Gillan seems to have no corporeal form whatsoever."

Ruth absorbed his mini-rant with a well-practised ease. "Mm."

It was a response he found most unsatisfactory. With her nose still firmly buried in the file, she wasn't even looking at him. After another few minutes, however, she finally closed it and pushed it away from her. From the opposite end of the bench, Ros leaned over and grasped at it with the tips of her fingers.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked.

"Sure," replied Ruth, nudging it over to her. "But there's nothing there."

While they played pass-the-file, Harry drew a deep breath. "It's possible that Gillan isn't even active any more. He could have been the head shed in that organisation all through the seventies and eighties and we wouldn't know because the Government refused to acknowledge that the UDA were terrorists and refused to sanction any action against them."

It was worse than that, of course. Republicans openly accused the British Security Forces of colluding with Loyalist paramilitaries to carry out murders, assassinations and bombings. The Dublin and Monaghan bombings being the most serious. Worse, Harry was in no position to counter their allegations since he was still in University when it happened and all files relating to the bombings had been destroyed. Sometimes, he wondered why they had been destroyed, but he never allowed himself to answer. Not all idle speculation was harmless.

"Harry," said Ruth, in a tone that suggested sympathy was on its way. Her hand found its way to his and grasped it firmly under the table. "It's okay; we'll think of something. Even the past can't stay buried forever."

He could feel her gaze resting softly on him, but as he went to speak to her, he was cut off by the door opening. Nathan peered cautiously around the door's edge before he entered. He had lost his jacket, presumably in the bombing and his tie was crooked. Otherwise, he looked well. All of them breathed more easily as he stepped assuredly into the room and returned their greetings. But Harry noted that he wasn't allowing himself to be drawn into small talk as he made his way over to them.

"Nathan, are you okay?"

Ruth's hand left his as she got to her feet, as though she was intent on physically examining Nathan herself.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

His reply was curt as he rounded the table and approached Harry. He pulled up the chair right next to him and flopped down in it. He turned to face Harry, one elbow braced against the table top, sleeves rolled to the elbow.

"I have something for you about Paul Kendall," he stated, breathlessly.

His large blue eyes shone with a feverish intensity that made Harry wonder whether he was coming down with something. But it was a concern short lived as his opening statement hit home. Deeply curious, he gestured for Ros and Lucas to come closer.

"Go on," said Harry, once they were all gathered around.

Nervously, Nathan looked up at all the eager faces suddenly shining a spotlight on him. Something he was yet to get used to in critical moments.

"My partner works for an organisation that helps track down missing people. Normally, it's just kids who've not been home in a few days, but sometimes he gets these really old cold cases. Some of them from decades ago. A couple of weeks before he went, he was looking into a seventeen year old called Andrew Gillan, who was last seen in January 1976, outside Crumlin Road army barracks. He was a foot soldier with the British Army." Nathan explained everything in a rush, barely pausing for breath. "The thing is, the missing person's report was filed by Paul Kendall."

After well over thirty years in the service, not much of the information they uncovered left Harry speechless. He had to take a moment to process what Nathan had said; a process that necessitated a slower retelling. Nathan had not yet been privy to the information on Andrew Gillan, he still thought the only significant name was Paul Kendall's. Something the others were also aware of as they held their silence and kept their thoughts to themselves. Harry, however, had a familiar deadweight building in his stomach – that deeply unpleasant suspicion that the unequally unpleasant surprises had not yet ended. Numbly, he signalled to Ros to pass over the sparse file on Andrew Gillan.

"Andrew Gillan," he repeated the name to Nathan. "The man we believe to be in overall command of the UDA."

Silently, Nathan took the file and opened it. Harry watched his brow tighten into a frown as he glanced over the single page of intel.

"The Andrew Gillan my partner was looking into was an Englishman; a kid in the British Army…"

His words trailed off as he looked up from the file, while still gesturing to it with his free hand. "It could be a coincidence."

Ros shook her head. "There's coincidences, and then there's things like this."

"Ros is right," Lucas concurred. "This is too weird, Nathan. Has anyone heard from Ollie?"

"No and I only found this stuff out because I called his office to see if he had been in touch," explained Nathan. "I only asked about his recent cases on the off chance he'd done anything with Paul Kendall's case. Or anything else to do with Northern Ireland. I recalled him saying something about a guy from Belfast."

"What exactly?" Ruth cut in.

Nathan shrugged.

"Try to remember," Harry instructed him. "This is all connected. I'm certain of it. Ros is right; this is too coincidental. Ollie, Gillan, Kendall and, ultimately, Beth."

Still deeply disconcerted by the turn of events, Harry felt the strong urge for whiskey and the politicians below be damned. To give himself a little more time to mull things over, he drew back his chair and looked each of them in turn. It was the strongest team he had; he knew that. Ros was unflappable; despite his recent knocks, Lucas had come back strong and Ruth was among the sharpest Analysts in the service. Now it seemed even Nathan was finding his feet and learning to run. Still, they were stretching themselves. With Lucas and Ros going undercover with the UDA, Ruth would be bound to Hillsborough with Tariq. Only Nathan enjoyed a degree of flexibility when moving between the two, albeit interconnected, operations. It was enough to set Harry's nerves on edge.

"You've done very well, Nathan," he said, remembering how hard he had pushed their newest recruit. Pushed so hard he was almost propelled out of the team altogether. "Very well, indeed."

The junior case officer turned pink in the face and averted his gaze to somewhere beside his feet. When he did look up at Harry again, he appeared troubled.

"So, that thing I did with driving the First Minister around in a stolen car with a body in the boot … there'll be no come back on that?"

Harry shrugged. "Whatever for? Regrettable, yet unavoidable."

"You couldn't just leave the man's corpse lying in the road," Ros pointed out. "Anyway, we need to get a move on. This business with Gillan, Kendall and the UDA takes precedence now. Lucas and I wish to make a start tomorrow. We've already made contact with an East Belfast asset who says he get us a meeting with the Brigadier. I suggest we go from there."

At Harry's side, Nathan continued to look troubled. Nipping at his lower lip, he braced both elbows against the table top and buried his face in his hands. The others glanced his way, but most inwardly wrote it off as nothing more than a manifestation of a seriously stressful bitch of a day. Harry was even about to send him away for a nap, when the other man suddenly sat up straight again and looked Ros in the eye.

"I have an idea," he stated. "I know you won't like it, but I swear I've thought it through properly."

Already, Harry's alarm bells were ringing. His skin was still pink; eyes still fever-bright. This idea was going to be anything but logical, Harry could feel it. Ros, also, looked over Nathan with a rare flash of worry in her expression.

"What is?" she asked, prepared at least to hear him out.

"Bring me in with you, as another representative of Britain First. I've done it before, with the cell in South London. Bring me with you again, for the first few meet ups, then arrange an emergency meeting between you, Lucas and them and tell them I'm a mole working for MI5. I can get-"

"Shot," Lucas cut over him, incredulously.

Ruth, equally disbelieving, nodded. "If you're lucky."

"You don't understand!" Nathan retorted, looking crestfallen. "This really could work."

He was about to appeal to Harry, who second guessed what was coming.

"That is a uniquely insane idea, Nathan. One which, had it not been for the Official Secrets Act, would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb in the long and illustrious history of Uniquely Insane Ideas."

Nathan slumped back in his seat, arms now folded across his chest and shoulders slumped. But Ruth leaned over Harry, attempting to ease the standoff that had developed with carefully worded pragmatism.

"Look, it's been a long day for everyone. This morning's attack must have come as a huge shock. Why don't you get some rest and come back to the table once you're thinking a little more clearly. Rushing in headlong rarely ends well."

Understanding himself to be dismissed, Nathan rose from his seat. "If I had the chance to explain without interruption-" he paused, glancing at Lucas through narrowed eyes – "you might see it's not as mad as it sounds. It's perfectly logical."

Lucas huffed indignantly. "If you're referring to me; I got as far as 'tell them I'm a mole' and immediately equated it with certain death. Look back over past instances of moles being uncovered and you might spot the pattern for yourself."

Harry exchanged a look with Ros, understanding passing between them as their minds hit an equal wavelength.

"Both of you, that's enough," she cut over Nathan before he could open his mouth again. "Nathan, take Ruth's advice. You're signed off for the rest of the day, you can report for duty again in the morning."

"Seconded," Harry curtly interjected. He could only assume Nathan had a fatal fondness for the dog house they kept putting him in and watched as he skulked out of the hall and back into the main body of the castle. "If he learns how to harness that maverick daring, he might just make it as one of the great officers of his generation," he observed, afterwards.

Ros raised a brow. "That's a very big '_if_', Harry."

* * *

That night, Ros and Lucas lay in each other's arms in the darkness of their cramped room. Moonlight poured in from the window behind the spot where their mattresses still lay side by side on the wooden floorboards. An arrangement that made begun to make both their bodies ache after three nights of it. But at that moment, both were happy as they lay and wait for sleep to come creeping up on them.

Lucas had his arm around her bare shoulders, one finger lazily curling around the strap of her camisole top. She rest her head against his shoulder, tucked under his chin and he could see over her, to the weak light falling across the floor. Neither spoke much, but the silence was companionable enough. In fact, he though she had fallen asleep.

"What do you think they talk about?"

Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.

"Who?"

"That lot."

Lucas frowned at the overhead light. "You mean the politicians here?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "Do you remember, a few years ago, they held preliminary talks before holding main talks. That's like holding talks about holding more talks. Politicians here, they don't just talk like our lot do. They talk about talking, for Christ's sake."

Lucas sniggered. "I think you've just answered your own question there."

Evidently still fully alert, Ros suddenly rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. "Tonight, Tariq and I listened to one them banging on about fly fishing in Lough Erne. He just kept going on and on about it, like his bloody miserable life depended on it. I'm starting to get the feeling that the phrase 'crisis talks' has lost all relevance to these people. It's like they've had a few inter-party fall outs and suddenly start thinking the conflict will break out all over again unless they hold immediate '_crisis talks'. _When, in reality, all they're doing is making mountains out of mole hills and wasting our time in the process. It's like, all we're really here for is to hold their hands while they make small talk and learn to play nicely with each other again. We cannot keep doing this."

He listened to what she was saying, turning his head to one side on the pillow so he could see her again. Her eyes looked darker in the poor light, whereas his looked colourless as the moonlight fell directly on his face. His jawline dark with the threat of an imminent beard. Haphazard prison tattoos thrown into stark relief as one arm rested behind his head. His expression darkened again as he processed what Ros was essentially saying.

"They spent thirty years trying to kill each other," he countered. "Literally. There are men in that room who, in the past, have physically held guns to each other's heads. I get why they take their falling outs seriously. But you're right; they have to learn to stand on their own two feet eventually. We're not baby sitters." For a moment, his words trailed off into silence. Then, he added: "And it's led to this business with Beth."

Ros also remained silent for some time. He could sense her mulling it over, biting at her bottom lip as she continued to look up at the ceiling.

"Do you think we should have heard Nathan out this afternoon?"

It was unlike her to express doubt of any kind. But given that Lucas himself had shot the plan down as soon as it got dangerous, he was unlikely to indulge her misgivings.

"Anything that involves an agent being deliberately outed is never going to end well," he assured her.

"Still," she said. "I think I might talk to him tomorrow. See what it is he was actually going to say. In the meantime, how do you feel about tomorrow?"

She turned from the ceiling to look at him again, returning to the position she was in five minutes before. "If you want to back out, you can."

"What? And leave you to go in alone?" he retorted. "Not bloody likely."

The tip of her index finger traced the blotchy, hatchet job tattoo that covered his chest and she smiled up at him. "Good," she replied, firmly.

With that, drew the blankets up to her shoulder and let her eyes drift closed. Throwing a protective arm around her waist, Lucas soon followed suit.

* * *

**Thanks again to everyone for reading this. Reviews would be welcome. **


	14. Building Bridges

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. **

**For those outside the UK, the Big Issue is a magazine sold by the homeless. Parts of it are regularly dedicated to appeals for missing persons. **

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Building Bridges  
**

Sleepless and restless, Harry occupied the early and dead hours of the morning sinking into his own tumultuous thoughts. By the light of a single desk lamp he studied the two photographs given to him by Sean Mallon, but only the stranger drew his eye. The photograph of himself, the one meant for Jane, he set to one side. He remembered it, but he could not think how it came to be in Paul Kendall's possession. So he turned his attention to the teenager with the vacant smile, frozen in fuzzy black and white. It was a style of photography that looked old fashioned, even for the mid-seventies. The picture showed a raw recruit – the type who signed up straight from school to bypass the dole queues and seek some adventure in their lives. The closest thing to adventure these walking corpses ever got was the back streets of Belfast, if they were lucky. If they were not lucky, then it was the killing fields of South Armagh.

To Harry's right, a glass of whiskey weighted down a page of handwritten notes in Ruth's hurried scrawl. Information was sparse, but the page was divided into two columns, one for each of the Andrew Gillans they were looking for. One a registered missing teenage kid in the army; the other suspected of being the shadowy figure plucking at the strings of the UDA. He looked again at the kid in the picture: sharp boned and skinny, a haunted look in his eyes. Could he have been turned? He was the right age. Young, open to suggestion and full of an inflexible sense of right and wrong – however skewed his perceptions might have been. Harry could understand it, too. He had seen his own colleagues blown to pieces, shot in the head at point blank range and tortured to death. It would have been easy, when scraping their charred remains from the city pavements, to seek retribution through the monster of Loyalist paramilitarism. If that was what Andrew Gillan had done, he wouldn't have been the first and he certainly wasn't the last. Then he would look at the picture again and remember, with a weary sigh, that he had no way of confirming his suspicion that the kid in the picture even was Andrew Gillan.

He look at the clock on the mantelpiece above the ornamental fireplace. It was nearing one in the morning and Ruth was still hacking into Oliver Jones' workplace computer, trying to find out whether he had any more information stored away on there. She and Tariq were working together in their makeshift computer suit. At times like this, Harry wished he had put more effort into the gadgetry side of his job, instead of relying so heavily on Malcolm Wynne-Jones and the geek army. Had he been a little more forward thinking, he would up there happily hacking away himself.

By half past the hour, Ruth returned. He looked up from the pictures on the desk, turning to see her in silhouette against the bright lights of the corridor outside. Closing the door quietly behind her, she was soft-footed as she made her way across their room.

"I thought you might be asleep," she said, dropping the twinkle-toes act.

"No such luck. Did you find anything?"

She pulled up a chair and placed it within the small circle of light cast by the desk lamp. Although holding some promising looking printouts, she gave a forlorn shake of her head.

"Not really. We found these," she explained, placing the printouts down. "Olly Jones was looking into Andrew Gillan because he'd received a phone call from someone claiming to be his brother. Don't get too excited, though. If this is right, both boys were given up for adoption at birth. The brother had been searching for his biological family so, naturally, will know precisely bugger all about our man or his life."

"So, where did Olly's own investigations take him?"

"Not very far," she answered, selecting one page of the printouts and handing it over. "Naturally, he started with the person who filed the missing person's report back in '76. But that was Paul Kendall and it didn't take Olly long to find out that Kendall was dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere on the Irish Border. Phone records show he contacted the British Army themselves, so that line of enquiry was shut off early on. Then he tried tracing him by going back to the children's home he grew up in. But that's now been turned into an Argos warehouse, so no luck there. He fired off an email to the National Adoption Agency for any records of foster families that might have taken him in, but naturally they haven't got back to him yet. Finally, he put out an appeal for information in the Big Issue, a copy of which is here." She broke off, handing over another print out.

"Would the National Adoption Agency even keep records going back that far?" asked Harry, glancing over the brief appeal. Olly's name and office number were clearly printed at the foot of the appeal, which contained no photograph of Gillan; just a brief description. It was all very perfunctory, as though Olly expected no replies regardless of what he included.

Ruth shrugged. "They're supposed to. They're supposed to keep them all. But it takes time to gather that information and Olly's workload means he must prioritise. He can't spend years on end tracking a cold case from thirty years ago when there are scared kids and vulnerable adults vanishing off the face of the earth on a daily basis."

"But, he still probed deep enough to make others aware of the search?"

For a long moment, Ruth considered the question. "Unless someone saw the Big Issue appeal, I don't see how they could have found out about the new investigation. It's not as though the wider media would be especially interested."

Normally, charitably minded citizens would purchase the Big Issue simply to give money to the homeless seller before winging it, unread, into the nearest bin. Or so Harry thought, as he read over the appeal once more. The fact was that it was out in the public domain and anyone could have seen it and Olly's contact details were conveniently included.

"I'm guessing Mr Gillan is still a ghost?" he asked, pessimistically.

"Afraid so, Harry. Not a photo to be found anywhere."

Returning to the photos he had been studying prior to her return, he slid the image on the young stranger over to her.

"Get Tariq to scan this and issue copies to the rest of the team," he instructed. "Do it first thing, before Ros and Lucas go undercover in the morning. Tell them to keep him in mind when searching for Andrew Gillan. It's thirty years out of date, but it's all we have."

Ruth took the photograph, looking it over with a frown darkening her brow. "Where did you get this?"

"Sean Mallon. He claimed that Paul Kendall shot this man in pub in Crossmaglen after setting him up as a Crown informant," he explained, revealing another piece of the mystery jigsaw. "Naturally, I don't want to take Sean Mallon's word for that. There's still something going on so I want everything taken into account."

She nodded, replacing the photo before the second caught her eye. It didn't dawn on her at first. Harry sat back and watched her expression as she looked at his much younger, slimmer self. Then her eyes widened and she half gasped, half laughed.

"Goodness, Harry, is that you? You look about ten!"

He heaved a sigh. "I was twenty-three if you must know! Anyway, Sean Mallon had that, too. Apparently I was being sent up as an informer, too."

He watched the colour drain from her face as her expression hardened again. "Jesus, Harry. Whoever was out to get you then was being bloody serious."

"They weren't known for their sense of humour, sadly," he replied, shrugging. "Anyway, it's late. We should try to get some sleep before work starts again."

It was already past two am and the talks began again at eleven. They would need to be up and active long before that. Rising together, they embraced wearily before giving up for the night.

* * *

Even the dawn seemed to break with an air of reluctance. Pallid and grey, lightless in the winter that heralded its own arrival with an endless fanfare of torrential rains. Ros rolled her eyes upwards as she approached the long bay windows in the breakfast room, watching the fat rivulets of water running down the panes, intertwining to make the whole world seem distorted and awash.

"Does it every bloody stop?" she groaned to the room at large, bemoaning the chronic incontinence of the Irish weather.

But only Nathan and Lucas had made it safely from their beds, so far. Harry, Ruth and Tariq were still nowhere to be seen. She was beginning to think they had the right idea. Lucas was there for no other reason than she was, too. Nathan, however, had no excuses. She turned to him and fixed him with a shrewd look.

"What are you doing up at this hour?"

Realising he was under the microscopic glare of Rose Myers, Nathan froze half way through taking a bite of toast. Like a thief caught red handed he didn't seem to know what to say. He was fully dressed and ready to go. Where that was, she couldn't say but she had her suspicions.

"Never mind," she added. "I wanted to speak to you anyway. Follow me."

Leaving Lucas to take a last minute look at their legend files, she strode through the breakfast room and out through the back door. A small exit that led to a modern fire escape that no one normally used. Cold as a crypt, the air was heavy with the smell of wet concrete and her heels rang and echoed up the vaulting stairwells. Undoubtedly, their voices would too so she withdrew into a second alcove close to the fire door, closing in enough without accidentally setting the alarmed door off. Nervously, Nathan squeezed himself into the narrow alcove alongside her. When they stood, they were as good as nose to nose even when their backs were pressed to the wall.

"Er … Have I done something?" he asked, worriedly.

He still looked tired. Blue eyes made haggard by dark circles and the scrubby beginnings of a beard where he had neglected to shave.

"I don't know. Have you?" she replied. "Actually, I don't care. Tell me, what was this earth shatteringly brilliant idea you had but never got the chance to explain? You know, before you were essentially sent to bed without any supper because that small part you did tell us actually sounded staggeringly insane? Don't worry about Lucas and Harry, they're just worried about you. This has become personal for you now. So tell me instead, because we really have no idea of how we're going to reach Beth. We're just striking in the dark and hoping to hit the target."

Ideally, they should have struck while the iron was hot. Because in the morning after the day before, Nathan remained silent as he clearly tried to recall the details of his own master plan. The shooting down of his plan before being fully explained had clearly knocked his fledgling confidence.

"It probably was stupid," he stated with a sigh. "Harry was right-"

"Tell me anyway, I need to hear it."

"Okay, well, I was thinking one of us could follow the same route Beth took. Or rather, get them to take us the same route," he began, perplexingly. "We're dealing with the same people. The people who have Beth. They've probably taken her because she's involved in the team who're also monitoring the talks here, as well as their organisation. So she has information they want and she's too dangerous to them for them to just let her go. Right?"

"Right," she concurred, nodding for him to continue.

"We're also claiming to represent an organisation they already have had dealings with. So we're solidifying something that already exists – their relationship with Britain First. That solid foundation already exists. However, we can also play on what we did to that Britain First cell. We can tell them we've had problems with moles in the past and that was what led to the destruction of the London cell last week."

"Establishing even more common ground will encourage them to let us even further in. So far, so good."

"So, what I was going to suggest was that one of us – I put myself forward because this is my idea, but it can be any one of us – is set up as another mole. Or a suspected mole. Then that mole will also be taken into custody, or whatever you want to call it. Only, you and Lucas insist on coming along to. Doing that could lead us straight into the place where they're holding Beth."

Ros thought about it for a moment. "We could also put a tracker on you. We wouldn't take our eye off you for a moment."

"We can get help from Special Branch, too."

"Exactly, and these boys over here know precisely what they're doing," she agreed. "But, Nathan, it's a huge risk and it could come to nothing. They could take you somewhere well away from Beth – meaning your little adventure could come to nothing. They could kick the shit out of you, or worse."

"But I'll have information they need," he pointed out. "They can't afford to kill me, just as they cannot afford to kill Beth."

"Also true," Ros ceded. "If there was any other way at all, I simply would not allow something like this to happen. It's too dangerous and the outcome is too uncertain."

Nathan looked her dead in the eye. "But…?"

"But, we have no other alternative," she confessed. "But this is not happening today. Today, you come with Lucas and I merely to meet with these people and see how we get on. Okay?"

He smiled a slow smile and nodded his head eagerly. "Understood."

"You say absolutely nothing about moles or suspected moles and you follow my lead at all times," she explained, firmly.

"Absolutely."

"And no heroics," she said, echoing Harry.

"No heroics," he agreed. "I promise."

The whole thing made her nerves prickle. "We need to discuss it thoroughly with Lucas, Tariq, Harry and Ruth. If Harry pulls the plug, then that's the end of it."

"Sure, I understand," Nathan replied, quick as a heartbeat.

She found herself wondering whether he was agreeing just to shut her up and end her fussing. Nevertheless, she let it drop and she let him slip from the alcove so he could breathe again. Still, she had to concede that there was hope for him yet, just as Harry insisted.

* * *

They didn't have to go far before they crossed Queen's Bridge and entered the east of Belfast city. Once over that threshold, the streets became lined with union jack flags fluttering from every lamppost; red, white and blue bunting was strung between them, forming a criss-crossed pattern over every street, in every direction. Nathan's eye was caught by a large, brightly coloured wall mural adorning a gable end house on the corner of Newtonards Road. Two black clad, hooded gunmen glowering out over the populace against a blue background. Another depicted a scene from the Somme; the First World War hijacked to celebrate the Ulster Volunteer Force's once legitimate thirty-sixth division. Other than the tribal wall paintings, it could have been a residential street in any other part of the United Kingdom or Ireland.

Forming legends had proved more problematic than they first anticipated. Lucas' fake name had to be changed at the last minute because of its Irish origins. Something they completely overlooked until one of their Special Branch advisors pointed it out. Now, they were religiously and ethnically neutral right wing Brits looking to forge new links with their founding fathers. It was the best they could do, short of fully infiltrating the beast of the Ulster Defence Association.

They found the house they were looking for off the Newtonards Road itself, out towards the semi-rural outskirts of the city. Far from the shops and the built up areas, it was surrounded by patchy playing fields adorned with rusty goal posts that had buckled under. An abandoned and burnt out car was overturned in the middle of the field, slowly leaking poison into the dying grass. Nathan looked over it all wearily, wondering why the peace process grants from Brussels didn't seem to have stretched to this part of town.

"Come on," said Ros, chivvying him along.

He followed her and Lucas up a tarmacked driveway, to a three storey house that looked just like any other but for one boarded up window. It was clear that no one actually lived there from the overgrown front garden with litter lining the places flowers should be. The front door, all peeling green paint, opened before Ros had the chance to knock. Not a little disconcertingly, it was opened by a masked gunman dressed the same as the one in the mural Nathan spotted on his way down the road. All three of them stopped outside the door, not stepping inside until their welcome party improved. But at least, Nathan thought, they had come to the right house.

"Hi, I'm Rachel Merchant and this is Leo Newman. We're here to speak with Andrew Gillan?"

The masked man looked from one to the other. "Who's that?" he demanded, nodding to Nathan.

Nathan himself stepped forwards, offering a hand to shake. "Nick Firth from the Britain First PR department. Pleased to meet you."

Ros smiled beatifically at the man. "Sorry, I thought we mentioned that Nick was coming with us in my last email."

Briefly, the two men shook hands before they were all ushered inside.

In the hallway, a staircase led to the first floor. But from what little Nathan could see, it was all in darkness and all unused. They bypassed the stairs and headed to a cellar door, which led into a basement lit with a single bare bulb. It was covered in cobwebs that Ros irritably shook from her hair as her head brushed past the bulb. Finally, they reached a basement room that had been refurbished. Two more armed and masked men stood either side of a large table. On the wall behind them was a union jack flag pinned in place below a portrait of the Queen. Sat behind the table was one older man. Nathan estimated that he was around Harry's age, or a little older. He was tall, well over six foot and broadly built. From the look of him, he could still hold his own despite being guarded by three heavies. Although he refrained from introducing himself, he got up and shook them by the hand.

"Welcome, please take a seat. So, you've come to build some new bridges?"

The man gestured towards four chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of his desk. While they got settled in three of them, the heavies took up defensive positions behind their commander. Literally, three human guard dogs. Nathan's gaze briefly flickered over all of them, wondering if the same heavies were more for their benefit than for the commander's. He leaned back in his seat, the corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile, and waited for the show to begin.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be welcome.**


	15. The Man Behind the Desk

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. Also, apologies for the late update – I'm in the middle of moving to a new apartment here. Meaning, the next update will possibly also be some time off. **

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**Chapter Fifteen: The Man Behind the Desk **

There was no sunset. Just a rapid reduction in light as the rain continued to hammer through the gloom of the evening. Ruth was in the reception, mingling nervously with a flute of champagne clutched in one hand like a shield. The same glass she had been holding for the last two hours. Between every handshake and every fake smile, her gaze flickered out of the window, watching for the return of Lucas, Ros and Nathan. Just a sign; headlamps penetrating the grey or the sound of gravel crunching under tyres, set her heartbeat racing. But there continued to be no sign of any of them.

Neatly sidestepping two approaching Young Unionists, she withdrew to the side of the room where she could keep Harry in her line of vision. He was deep in conversation with the Home Secretary, but the Prime Minister himself was looking on; nodding at intervals but clearly not following. Ruth afforded herself a moment to watch their body language: tense and shifty, no one in the room was at ease. Amidst the glitter of the chandeliers and gold leaf decorations, politicians stuffed into tailored Saville Row suites and the free flowing champagne, she was in a room full of people who secretly wanted to punch each other. Animosity penetrated the very air like imitation designer perfume.

"Miss Evershed."

The sound of the First Minister's voice cut short Ruth's people watching. She turned to find him towering over her left side. Kyle McCracken had a small glass of white wine delicately pinched between thumb and forefinger. He sniffed at it as though he didn't know what else to do with it.

"First Minister," she greeted him in return. "How do you find the talks so far?"

"It's fine; absolutely fine," he replied, grimacing as he ventured a sip of wine. "God, that's repellent!"

He cast a quick glance round the room before tipping the rest into a vase of flowers sat on the nearest table. While distracted with that, he exchanged a terse greeting with his Republican counterpart – the same man Ruth had bumped into earlier that day. Once more, the other man's watery gaze lingered over her; silently assessing her before passing on his way. Ruth watched him leave, re-joining a group of his party colleagues.

"Is he always like that?" she asked, still watching the deputy's back.

"Who?" asked McCracken, following the line of her gaze. "Oh, him. He's actually okay once you get used to him. Just don't mention fly fishing or the Wolf Tones."

"Duly noted," she laughed.

"I must admit, I was rather hoping our mutual friend would be on duty this evening," he said, turning serious again. "Mister Fraser? I didn't get a chance to thank him properly."

"Ah, he's incognito I'm afraid, First Minister," she answered. "He should be back later this evening, but I can't guarantee he'll literally be here."

"Oh, sod. I didn't mean to pry into the affairs of the Security Forces. But please, wish him all the best for me, if you do see him." With that, the Minister turned and set off towards a nearby group of party colleagues.

Just as he went, Ruth's phone vibrated against her leg, where she had concealed it inside her stocking garter. She set the glass of lukewarm champers down on the tray of a passing waiter and set off towards the nearest exit. Keen eyes followed her as she made her exit; the keen eyes of those who knew what she was and what she was doing. It was disconcerting, unnerving to be under the microscope of an enemy who had more the levelled the playing field over the years. The words to an old song ran through her head: "when Irish eyes are smiling…" _they're up to something, _she amended the following line herself.

By the time she reached the ladies, the phone had stopped ringing. But she locked herself inside a cubicle and lifted the hems of her skirts to pull it out anyway. With all handbags forbidden in case anyone took it into their heads to smuggle a gun inside and shoot everyone there, she had been forced to drastic measures. The number was unrecognised; a long series of digits flashed up on the screen, but she returned the call anyway and leaned her back against the door as it rang. When it did answer, a soft-spoken Welshman answered, but it was too old to be Nathan.

"Hi, I think I just missed a call from you," said Ruth. "You rang about two seconds ago."

"Yeah, I'm looking to speak with either Rachel Evans or Nathan Fraser," the man replied, full of uncertainty.

Ruth recognised one of her own legends. "I'm Rachel Evans," she confirmed. "I'm from HR-"

"Nonsense, you're from MI5," the man cut in.

"Wait? Who told you that?" she asked, brow creasing into a frown.

"The man who rang me up to warn me about my son's activities in Northern Ireland," the man explained, rather matter of fact. "Now look, I'm ex-military and I know how these people work – they're using me to get at him, blissfully unaware that Nathan wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire. But still, I thought he might like to know anyway. Whatever he's up to over there, the UDA are on to him. You might want to tell Harry Pearce as well, whoever he is."

By the time he stopped talking, Ruth's head was starting to spin and she was regretting not bringing the drink in with her. She allowed herself a moment in which to process what was happening.

"Start from the beginning, Mr Fraser," she said. "Who contacted you and what did they say exactly?"

"He gave the code name Ulysses and said they were giving my son and his MI5 colleagues twenty-four hours to get out of Northern Ireland or face the consequences," he explained. "Before you ask, he didn't say what those consequences would be."

It was too late for that, even if there was a remote possibility of MI5 kowtowing to terrorists. They were being goaded into something. Ruth's mind raced as to where the information was coming from, but she couldn't decipher it all there and then. She needed to get back to Harry.

"Thank you, Mr Fraser," she eventually said. "I'll be in touch soon-"

"Where is Nathan, Mrs Evans?" he cut in again. It was the first time in the conversation he sounded even remotely concerned about his son's whereabouts. "If he is working for you lot now, has he already gone undercover? Whatever else has gone on between us, I'm still his next of kin."

Suppressing a sigh, Ruth framed her brush off as delicately as possible. "I'm sorry, I cannot-"

"Need to know," he butted in again, before she could finish. "It's all right. I understand."

The line went dead again, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Ruth scowled down at the screen of her phone as though some trace of the man might have remained, before sliding it back into its discreet hiding place. Unlocking the cubicle door she crossed to the sinks and splash some cold water over her wrists to bring her temperature down and stop the shaking she didn't even notice had begun as she connected dots in her head. If the UDA knew the names of the team, it could only mean they were making Beth talk.

* * *

They looked at each other impassively. Ros, Lucas and Nathan all sat in a wide semi-circle around the man with no name. Or at least, a name he had not confirmed. His heavily armed guards remained completely still, staring straight ahead at the far wall. Nathan wondered how they managed to remain so motionless for so long. Not even the automatic weapon in their hands trembled. All the while, the main man kept talking. Talking, talking, talking… Ros looked like she was about nod off; whereas Lucas' eyes remained open but he had withdrawn deep inside. The subject would veer from killing people to the grouting on his bathroom tiles; from the erosion of Protestant culture, to the declining quality of fish and chips in mid-Ulster. A constant stream of unconnected rubbish. Every so often, his accent slipped into something else. Whoever he really was, the accent was off, as though undercut by years of living abroad.

Nathan had lost track of time, but he could still hear rain dripping down the guttering outside. But that was no indication of anything except that they were still in Ireland. Eventually, when the man behind the desk did fall silent, he peered at the three of them in turn through narrowed eyes.

"Who did you say you were again?" he asked, unpromisingly.

It was everything Ros could do not to huff and puff. All the same, Nathan detected just the briefest of eye rolls in the failing light.

"My colleagues and I are representatives from Britain First – an organisation very closely linked with your own-"

"An organisation ours severed all links with almost one year ago."

It was one of the armed guards who spoke. Nathan's gaze immediately snapped left, to the man who spoke. But he could see nothing under that mask. For a fraction of a second, he was tempted to reach across the desk and simply tear it off.

"That may be the case," Nathan cut in. "But the people causing the problems have since been rooted out of Britain First. You may not have heard, but we were the victims of an MI5 sting operation about three weeks ago-"

"All the more reason for you to not be here," the man behind the desk spoke again. He leaned forwards, hands steepled as he regarded Nathan curiously. Something he took as silent challenge.

"Really?" he replied. "As to that, it may interest you to know we knew the sting was coming. A sympathetic insider tipped us off and we made sure the only Britain First members active on that operation were the ones who caused the rift in the first place. Now, it's only us and we would like to rebuild the organisation and keep to its original principles."

Silence settled as the man behind the desk took in what Nathan had said. He was still fixing him with a penetrative stare. Steel blue eyes, acute behind the lenses of his spectacles. Finally, he sat back in his seat, but still kept his own cards close to his chest. Ros, however, was not keen for the silence to spin out.

"Our aims are the same as yours," she insisted. "To place the United Kingdom at the forefront of world affairs; to free ourselves of Europe and eradicate immigration altogether. We recognise Northern Ireland as the most loyal, unfailingly loyal, part of our united country. Through the years we have watched you and your men not only struggle against insurrectionists from the Catholic community, but fight to remain a functioning part of the United Kingdom. Now, we want to repay your unfailing loyalty and bring you in closer than ever. We will make sure that Northern Ireland is no longer shunted into the side lines by the London government."

Nathan watched her expression as she spoke. She managed to make it sound so sincere, even leaning forwards and matching the UDA Boss's pose, inflection for inflection. They were even and addressing each other as equals. Lucas, meanwhile, hung back and watched the exchange passively. Only his focus sharped as Ross and the older man spoke.

"You say you have a sympathetic insider within MI5? Who is he?"

"She is Beth Bailey," Lucas answered, without missing a beat.

Nathan scrutinised the reaction of the man behind the desk, searching for any trace of recognition. But he was too much of an old hand for that. Instead, he got up and collected his jacket from the back of his seat. He shrugged it on and reached for a set of car keys from the drawer of his desk.

"Fancy a tour?" he asked.

Once more, the three of them all looked at each other. They were all armed; they all had trackers concealed in the lining of their collars. After a second, Ros nodded to the man. "Sure; but we all stay together."

* * *

"Ros still isn't answering her phone," Harry declared, irritably, as he hung up his own. He had been trying for over an hour, but each time went straight to voice mail. "Have you managed to reach Lucas?"

Ruth shook her head. They had returned to their rooms in the Castle and left the politicians to their own devices. Tariq was still keeping an eye on things, but it was too much for one to cope with alone. Even in peace time, Northern Ireland had its way of consuming the very life force of every operation. Restless, Harry took to pacing the floor while Ruth remained sat on the bed, running her hands agitatedly through her hair.

"Beth couldn't have passed on that information," she said. "Not about Nathan's parents because she doesn't know it. Nathan hasn't spoken to his parents in years, so why would she know?"

"He's ex-military," said Harry. "Nathan's dad I mean. He served here and he was based in West Germany before the end of the cold war. That's a link I want looking into. There's too many ex-military men being targeted at the moment."

Ruth got up and closed the small gap between them. She was still wearing the navy blue dress she wore to the reception downstairs in the castle banquet room. Unable to resist, he let one hand rest lightly on her left hip, drawing her closer to him.

"They know what they're doing," he assured her.

She still looked troubled. "They're doing too much and we don't have the same resources was have back on the Grid. We can't properly keep track of them and they're getting much too close to these people. Then there's Beth…"

"And there's this thing that's going to happen unless we get out of Northern Ireland within twenty-four hours," he added. "That's another thing troubling me about all this. The UDA don't make idle threats like that."

"Jesus, Harry, we have no reliable intel on these people at all. Everything rests on Lucas, Ros and Nathan getting in with these people and that leaves us overstretched here and it still may not bring us any closer to Beth."

"I share your frustration, Ruth, I really do. But for now, the Op takes priority," he stated, bluntly. As ever, regnum defende.

* * *

The black taxi pulled out into the main road. Wet streets shone in a street lamp glare as they fell into a steady pace along the Falls Road. Nathan watched from the window as they passed the Sinn Fein head office; a giant mural of the hunger striker Bobby Sands took up the entire gable end – eliciting a curse and guffaw from the driver. A small, ragged tricolour hung limp from a lamp post and the street signs appeared in Irish Gaelic. Other than that, this most notorious of Belfast addresses was a street like any other.

"See these Fenian rats," said the driver, voice amplified over the intercom in the taxi. "They're all in bed with the British Government. There's talks happening at Hillsborough now and they'll be wringing every concession they can get out of the Brits – the same people they were blowing up a few years ago."

They slowed down outside the Royal Victoria Hospital, turning left down the Grosvenor Road. Within the blink of an eye, they had crossed an invisible boundary into a staunchly loyalist area. Another left turn, and they were driving past the back carpark of the Europa Hotel and drawing out into Sandy Row. Loyalist murals and union jacks lined the streets, even the kerbstones were painted red, white and blue. The three of them made a mental note of it all. But Nathan had never realised before just how tightly packed the two warring communities were. Literally cheek by jowl in a deadly tapestry of historical and sectarian hatreds.

"This is close to the city centre, no?" asked Ros, still frowning out of the windows of the cab.

"This is the centre," their tour guide replied. "See what we mean? We're surrounded by the enemy and the city is a front they've put up to fool people into thinking everything's fine."

Navigating the one way traffic system, they circled the south city district and started heading west again. Up the Shankill Road, passing a monument to the thirteen men, women and children who were slaughtered in an IRA bomb in 1993. The names of the dead etched in gold on black marble – innocent civilians turned into dead meat and political footballs, scoring points in an endless tit-for-tat propaganda war. Their driver took his commentary again:

"One of the bombers had the decency to blow himself up in that," he pointed out, gesturing to the Credit Union building that was once a fish shop. "The other bomber served seven years in prison before being released early under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement. And the London Government still wonders why we're taking our war to them now?"

Nathan let Lucas and Ros make the necessary sympathetic noises. He was too busy committing the lay out of the endless streets to memory. Every detail, every mural, flag and landmark. Somewhere in this maze of terraces and shop fronts, their agent and his partner were being held against their will. He could almost feel them and all he could do was sit back and wait for the right time to insinuate himself deeper into the relevant cell.

They left the Shankill, emerging on to the Crumlin Road. Again, they passed through an invisible barrier and crossed the sectarian lines. But they didn't linger long on the Crumlin. They passed the old courthouse and right turned on to the Andersonstown Road. Once more in the heart of Republican Belfast, the taxi slowed down.

"There's a guy living in this house here," said the driver. "Sean Mallon, Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA. He doesn't know it yet, but we've a wee surprise for him in the morning."

Nathan glance sidelong at Ros who was sat between him and Lucas. She schooled her reaction perfectly.

"Oh really," she said. "Anything we can help you with?"

The taxi gathered speed again, leaving the street on which Mallon lived and headed back towards the east of the city.

"We might just take you up on that."

* * *

**Again, apologies for the delay in getting this updated. Real life has been pure chaos and it could be a while before the next update. Sorry about that.**

**Thanks again for reading and reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute. Thank you.**


	16. Double Edged Sword

Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have taken time to review. It's greatly appreciated, thank you.

**John Hulme was the leader of the Civil Rights Association of Northern Ireland (later, the Social and Democratic Labour Party) and all round peace activist. He also led the Good Friday Talks, leading to permanent peace in NI.**

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**Chapter Sixteen: Double Edged Swords**

**Derry City. 30****th**** January, 1972.**

"All we are saying, is give peace a chance!"

Everyone on the bus joined in. The hippy at the back with the acoustic guitar led them, but all voices raised in unison to belt out the lyrics. Even Sean Mallon, who set aside the book he had been reading and raised a bleary eyed smile. He had been up at the crack of dawn to catch the bus to Derry in time for the Civil Rights march after another night of being kept awake by rioters outside his house on the Falls Road. This time, the rioting was over five people shot dead by British Troops up on the Ballymurphy estate. Despite his growing doubts that their efforts were futile, he sang the song of peace one more time.

By the time they had finished, the bus depot of the city had rolled into view. Sean and his sister, Aine, pulled down their banner from the overhead luggage compartment and prepared to head straight for the march.

"Do you know where it is?" he asked, as they were ushered off the bus. "It's been years since we were here last."

Even then, they were only passing through on their way to Donegal and its Atlantic beaches. It was only since the violence erupted, about two years before, had the tiny city of Derry come to have a more significant meaning to them.

Aine looked blank. "Sure, we can just follow everyone else Sean. There's busloads coming in from all over."

She wasn't wrong, either. There were two other buses from Belfast, another from Tyrone and Omagh and even one from Dublin. To keep together they linked arms and Sean foisted their civil rights banner over his shoulder; they would carry it together as soon as they reached the Guildhall. Aine was younger than him and he had promised their mother – on pain of death – that he would look after her on her first ever march.

So they emerged together into the city centre, finding large crowds already assembled. Although they could not get close enough to the Guildhall to hear John Hulme deliver his speech, they still soaked up the atmosphere. Internment without trial had been introduced some time ago. All males aged seventeen and over were being swept off the streets and locked up in cells without so much as a charge being levelled against them. Attacks and raids on Catholic communities were being stepped up and the newly reborn IRA was growing in strength.

But it was internment that had brought them out today. While they still had the right to assemble, march and protest, Sean believed in the alternative to violence. Even if they were being tested to the very limits.

"They'll have to pay attention now," Aine called above the din of the crowds. "They can't ignore this!"

She looked thrilled as they unfurled their banner, ready for the march. Sean had no wish to bring her mood down, so he held his tongue. But he had long since become immune to what the London and Stormont governments could turn a blind eye to.

"Come on," he said. "We're moving off."

Their eyes met as they flashed each other a smile. Hoisting the large banner high, they set off at a brisk pace as the procession began. Singing a chorus of "We Shall Overcome", the atmosphere grew in intensity, despite the freezing weather. Floats and open topped trucks led the way, speakers bellowed indecipherably through megaphones. Sean looked round at all the other marchers: young, old and everyone between had come out in droves to protest internment. Only around the edges of the procession did heavily armed troops line the route in armoured land rovers and tanks. They had their weapons at the ready, trained on them.

"Thank fuck the IRA have stood down for the day," he said to Aine.

But she was too wrapped up in the march to pay much attention to the troops. They wound through the city streets, still singing and waving their banners and placards. All the way through to the Rossville Flats just beyond the shopping area in town. Sean had no real clue of where they actually were, but he could still see the famous city walls circling the city.

It was as they passed the flats that the first shot was fired. At first, no one seemed to register what had just happened. They spun round, looking up to the top of the flats but there was no one there. All Sean could see were the British troops standing of the roof of a jeep, guns at the ready. A moment later, someone returned fire and all hell broke loose.

"Jesus, Sean, what are we going to do?" Aine said, rooted to the spot.

He didn't know. Suddenly, the army jeeps started cutting through the crowds, sending people scattering and screaming; running for cover. Gun shots rang out, one piercing their banner. Sean dropped his side of it and grabbed Aine before running back towards the City Centre. All around them soldiers were opening fire, shooting directly into the crowd. Aine was screaming herself hoarse, while Sean desperately sought out refuge. But it was Sunday; the businesses were closed and the people were panicking all round them, blocking any escape.

"Aine!" he called out to her. "Down here!"

There was an archway leading through the walls of the city that looked as though it could offer some low level cover. It was as they rounded the corner that they saw the first body laid out in the road. The man had been shot through the head. The back of his skull pulverised and his body broken and twisted on the pavement. Sean came crashing to a halt as he took in the full horror of what he was seeing. It was Aine, bordering on the hysterical, who had to drag him away.

But everywhere he ran, everywhere he looked, there were British soldiers firing into crowds of unarmed civilians who hadn't a hope of defending themselves. A woman nearby was shouting hysterically: "they're going to shoot us all; they're killing us all!" Behind them, from down a steep hill beyond the archway, an army jeep sped downwards, heading straight for them. Sean cursed heavily, grabbed the woman and his sister and ran back through the town again, ending up at the Rossville Flats again. A priest was trying to deliver last rights to a woman lying on the pavement with a gaping hole in her chest; a little stream of blood leaked from her body into the gutter. Another man waved a white handkerchief desperately over his head as he helped carry another dead body on an improvised stretcher.

Without meaning to, Sean let go of the hysterical woman so he could cling to Aine. He never did see where she went to, or find out what became of her. But the shooting continued. Sean himself saw a civilian shot dead as he tried to crawl to safety from the nearby flats.

How long it lasted, he could never recall. But it stopped suddenly. The jeeps rolled away; the British withdrawing quickly and leaving a peculiar silence that haunted Sean for the rest of his adult life. He and Aine moved through the city in a daze. The last thing he could remember was seeing a corpse lying on the pavement covered in a white banner that had become soaked in blood. The logo of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association was still discernible, despite the bullet holes.

After that, he remembered nothing at all. There was a vast, hostile blankness where his memories of the following days should have been. He and Aine held each other. He had a sense of being in her arms as they returned home – he couldn't even remember how he got there. But beyond a sense of a memory, there was only emptiness. It was like his brain had suffered an overload of pure fear and anguish and simply shut down. By the time his memories began again, he was sitting on the sofa of a local IRA man. Next time, he vowed, he would be the one with the gun. He would be the one looking down the view finder and squeezing the trigger, watching as the high velocity bullets tore through the heads of British Soldiers. He had given peace all the chances in the world and now it was time for war.

It wasn't until well over forty years later, while Sean Mallon sat in front of his TV and listened to the British Prime Minister admit those people were killed unlawfully, did he finally break down and cry like a wounded animal. He didn't realise how badly it had affected him, how heavy that burden had grown, until suddenly it fell from his shoulders and the truth came out. Years of lies and army cover ups had been blown open and some old wound in his heart healed. He had steeled himself for another British establishment whitewash, too. Which made the PM's frank admissions all the more of a blessed relief.

There was one more unexpected consequence of the outcome of the Saville Inquiry into Bloody Sunday. Now that the British Government had manned up and admitted their guilt, he found he had space to breathe and reflect on his own past. They had made the effort, and so would he. That was how peace processes worked, after all. They had done terrible things, and so had he. It was that which led him to contacting Harry Pearce again, after so many years. Besides, he was as curious as anyone about the strange case of Paul Kendall and the mysterious photographs he had had in his possession for so many years.

Speaking of which, he needed an update…

* * *

Ros led the way back into Hillsborough. Silent and steadfast, she strode along the corridors betraying none of her tiredness. Nathan and Lucas followed in her wake, not speaking a word until they reached the room Harry occupied with Ruth. Despite the lateness of the hour, she wrapped firmly on the door and took a step back, almost treading on Nathan's toes. Predictably, Harry was still up and Ruth was still working at a laptop.

He almost fainted with relief when he saw them standing there.

"We've been worried sick about you three," he said. "Come inside and give me a briefing."

He held the door open fully to admit them. Ruth shut down the laptop and hurried to prepare tea and coffee for everyone. She had her hair tied back in a loose bun and a pencil slid behind her ear. Like Harry, she was almost dizzy to see them back safely. Nathan gave her a hand, while Ros and Lucas settled themselves on a sofa by the bay windows. It was dark, so there was little to see. But they seemed more interested in the hotel room interior. Ros clicked her tongue as she looked it over.

"Harry, how much would it cost for Lucas to get a knighthood so we can have hotel rooms like this?" she asked. "You've seen that poxy cupboard he and I have."

The Section Chief had the modesty to blush. "But Ruth and I aren't fornicators, are we?"

"That's right," said Nathan, placing a tray of milk and biscuits down on the coffee table. "I've got your room, instead. Because obviously, I'm a paragon of virtue."

Lucas choked and Ros looked scandalised.

"If only they knew!" she retorted.

Ruth brought over the tea and coffee, to which they helped themselves as they got settled. Ros gave them the basic outline of what happened with the UDA and the meeting with the Brigadier. Starting with the meeting at the house in East Belfast and working through to the impromptu tour of the City they were taken on.

"Here's the issue," she said. "At the end of this tour, we pulled up outside this house on the Andersonstown Road, in the west of the city. The Brigadier told us it was the home of Sean Mallon and they were planning an assassination in the morning."

She paused there, waiting to see if Harry had anything to say. But, as always, his expression was unreadable and outward reaction remained minimal. He and Ruth had pulled another sofa over to the coffee table and now sat opposite the other three. Side by side.

"Harry, Sean Mallon's the Chief of Staff of the IRA. He's an asset of yours," she pointed out.

Harry still didn't say anything. He carried on scowling into the middle distance for at least another minute.

"Actually, he isn't an asset," he corrected Ruth. "He's merely given me some information about Paul Kendall and some cryptic clue that led us to Andrew Gillan. I can't imagine him betraying the IRA on any scale."

Nathan leaned forwards to retrieve his tea. "But if we let Mallon die then it could destabilise the peace talks. The Republicans would take it as an act of war. In that light, surely we should protect the peace process and tip him off."

"But if we do tip him off," said Lucas. "They will know that the tip off came from us and our operation will be blown."

"And if the operation is blown, we have no way of getting Beth back," Harry added, letting the full weight of the problem settle over him. "So, we save Beth or we secure the peace process."

"It gets worse," said Ros, ruefully.

Ruth's brow darkened as she frowned. "How could it possibly get worse?"

"Before any of this came to light, I thought it would help Beth if we said that she was a double agent inside MI5 who was secretly working for us."

"You did what?" Harry was incredulous. "How on earth was that supposed to help? If we tip Mallon off they'll not only know it came from you, they will kill Beth in retaliation-"

"But I didn't know about the fucking assassination at that point, did I?" she shot back. "I didn't even realise Mallon was such a key and influential player in the Provos."

Ruth lifted a stack of papers and slapped them down on the table, startling them all but succeeding in getting their attention. "Before this devolves into an argument, let's all just take a step back for a moment. Regardless of who did what and why, this is the situation as it stands so let's deal with that."

"Ruth's right," Lucas concurred. "Shouting at each other is utterly counterproductive. Ros made a mistake."

Harry got to his feet, declaring that he needed some air. Ros slumped back in her seat, watching him leave while kneading the bridge of her nose as the tension built up. The others remained silent and deep in their own thoughts until Ruth, also, got up and followed Harry outside.

* * *

She found him on the balcony, overlooking the grounds of the castle. The lighting had come on, displaying the Castle to full advantage. But it wasn't so strong they couldn't see the stars overhead. It was so cold, she regretted not bringing her coat out with her but she didn't want to go back inside while the mood was so tense. They needed time; time they didn't have. It was times like these she regretted giving up smoking.

"I need Mallon alive," said Harry, quietly. "As much as it pains me, I need that bastard alive."

He still had his back to her as he looked outwards and she leaned against the wall.

"What would the Republicans do if he was killed?" she asked, running through her own ideas. "Would they start the war again? It seems unlikely, to me. Would they break the ceasefire for one man?"

He turned to face her. They were only standing a few feet apart. "I don't know. What I do know is, it's not a chance I'm willing to take…" his words trailed off, his gaze cast downwards. "Regnum Defende, Ruth. My job is to protect the peace process, whatever the cost."

If Mallon was murdered, it may restart a conflict that would result in countless deaths. If Mallon was murdered, and it became known they knew about it, it would definitely reignite the conflict and they would be responsible. Cautiously, Ruth stepped closer to Harry, closing the gap between them slowly as if he were a frightened animal. But, as always, she felt like she was the one feeling the emotions he was too scared to let himself feel himself.

"So, that's it then, we blow Ros' Op, pull her, Nathan and Lucas out safely and sacrifice Beth," Ruth summarised, feeling a knot tighten in her chest. "One life, to protect countless others. You know you have no other choice."

They know this when they join the service. They know the risks and the choices they're forced to make. But right in that moment, it wasn't 'they' it was Harry alone. The buck stopped with him. More than anything she wanted to lift the burden from his shoulders. She let her hands rest on his hips and kissed him.

"Don't say anything," she said. "Just for now, don't make any decisions. Just stay here with me."

Without saying anything, Harry held her. She could feel him tremble, almost imperceptibly but it was there. A betrayal of nerves; a sign that things had spun out of their control. Ruth buried her face against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

* * *

Nathan checked the time, estimating how much was left before the assassination was due to happen. Eight to nine hours, if they were lucky. Agitated, he wrung his hands and tried to marshal his own tumultuous thoughts. While the others seemed to have bowed to the seemingly inevitable, he was still scrabbling for a way forward. But it was liking having the headlamps on full glare in the fog. He could see an inch ahead but after that it was going fuzzily opaque. It didn't help that he was exhausted and his head was beginning to ache.

He glanced sidelong at Lucas and Ros, but they were both glaring at the rug. Irritably, he got up and followed Ruth outside. He found them on the balcony, locked in an embrace. However, he couldn't even bring himself to apologise for the interruption.

"Look," he said, addressing them both. "Surely there's a third way around this?"

They pulled apart at his interruption, and he still wasn't sorry.

"I'll go with the assassins myself, if I have to," he added. "And bring them in before they can do anything."

Ruth stepped away from Harry, wrapping her arms around her middle. "That would buy us time," she said. "But nothing like enough."

Nathan sighed heavily. "So that's it then? We blow the operation and let Beth die. And Ollie; if they have him."

Ruth's expression dropped. Her wide blue eyes appealing to him, almost misting over with regret. "Nathan-"

"NO!" Harry cut in, forcefully. "No, he's right Ruth. We've got to try."

The transformation in Harry took both Nathan and Ruth aback. But it was Nathan who recovered his wits first. "Harry, we can have Special Branch all over the Falls by dawn and I can go with the UDA. We can bring them in."

"We need to discuss it as a team," said Ruth. "Nathan, run and drag Tariq down here. We'll need him. Harry come and make up with Ros. We need each other."

Nathan lagged behind, just to catch his breath. While he was alone, he doubled over and heaved a sigh of relief. If he was the praying type, he would have been kneeling.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.**


	17. Square Pegs

**Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially to those who reviewed. Thank you. **

**I really hope this chapter makes sense because it's wrapping up loose threads from the first few, published months ago now. Anyway, here goes… **

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Square Pegs**

Milltown Cemetery slid into view from the car's passenger window. Monuments to the dead stood starkly against the pre-dawn gloom. Flanked by the Irish tricolour and the starry plough; lilies of orange and white wilted and liquefied in the endless rains. Wrought iron gates bled a stream of rust into the tarmac driveway, seeping onto the Falls Road itself. Memorials to the hunger strikers, to the fallen gunmen, to children caught in crossfire with their skulls shattered by rubber bullets; to the mourners killed during a grenade attack on a republican funeral. Not so long ago, you couldn't even bury the dead in peace. But no matter how full the graveyard; no matter how richly the soil was already sown with the bodies of the dead; there was always room for more in the ravenous Ulster crypts.

Sadly, Harry turned his gaze from the window and back towards the driver. Theirs was the only vehicle on the Falls, at that hour, but it was still a courtesy to stop at the lights. The green flashed through the rain, lighting up the car's leather interior and they pulled away again. Out into the main road, past Springfield and all the new EU funded housing projects and leisure facilities. It was all barricades and rooftop snipers when last he came here and, once more, he could only look out at all the changes.

He hadn't known what it was to be hated, until he came to this place for the first time back in the early seventies. He had met people he disliked; he had met people who clearly disliked him. They had exchanged secret sneers and terse, passive aggressive missives. He had been in fights during which he was pasted around all four walls and done the same to others in return. But it was in West Belfast, on the Falls Road, where he met people who truly despised him; who wanted to gut him and roast him, simply because of who he was and what he represented. A coldly detached, yet all-consuming, hatred.

To understand his enemy, he had to view himself as they viewed him. To them, he was not a person; he was not somebody's son or brother or boyfriend: he was just a uniform of a despised regime. He was an Oppressor and they were the Oppressed. To them, it really was as black and white as that. But now the streets slept. Silence unbroken by neither bomb nor bullet. Streets now patrolled only by stray, nocturnal cats out combing the alleys in hope of a late night snack; their keen eyes flashing in the swerve of the headlamps. The old Soldier in Harry felt like a dinosaur being winched slowly from its petrified pit.

By three in the morning, they drew up in front of a house on the Andersonstown Road. The house was like any other on the quiet street, but for the blacked out windows and reinforced doors. Before pressing in the button on the intercom, Harry looked both ways up and down the road. Once his own car had vanished, there was no one left but him. Not even the assassins lay in wait.

"Are you coming in or what?"

The terse command crackled over the intercom, startling Harry out of his reverie. "I think I will, if you don't mind."

"This better be good."

"Nothing but the best, I promise."

The automatic lock on the gate clicked as it was released, allowing Harry access. The house was in darkness, until the front door swung open and shaft of yellow light was cast along the driveway. Even that was cut in half by the elongated shadow of the IRA Chief of Staff appearing in said doorway. Sean Mallon looked at Harry, partially obscured by the door.

"This isn't a social call, I take it?" he asked.

Harry laughed. "Your powers of observation overwhelm me."

Mallon stood aside to let Harry in. He didn't know what to expect from the private home of a lifelong IRA man. He hadn't even given it much thought. But he was mildly surprised to find it being just like any other private home. There were no political murals adorning the living room wall; no monuments to dead terrorists, nor posters proclaiming illegal gatherings. Just photos of children, weddings, births and christenings. A Celtic cross stood on the mantelpiece over the living room gas fire; in the hearth a plaster cast statue of the Virgin Mary, kneeling in eternal prayer. A mass card was propped against her knee.

"It's Dearbhla's," Mallon pointed out as he noticed Harry looking. "Don't believe in any of it myself. Take a seat. You Brits usually make yourselves at home wherever you go, so don't stop on my account."

"I'm only staying for a few hours," Harry assured him. "It'll not take thirty years. Speaking of Dearbhla, is she here?"

He noticed that Mallon was fully dressed and fully awake. Surely his wife would be the same.

"She's gone round her brother's, up in Poleglass," he replied.

"And your children?" asked Harry, settling on the sofa.

"Don't live here anymore," he replied. "The eldest is living in England, the youngest is at University and the others all have homes of their own to go to."

Mallon stood by the hearth and switched on one of the lamps. The living room curtains were fully drawn, not that anyone could see in anyway. He only sat down once he had poured them both a measure of Irish whiskey.

"So, I'm going to be assassinated," he said. "Again."

It was more a statement of fact than a query. Nor did he look overly concerned as he relaxed in his seat, inspecting the contents of his glass. Harry didn't waste any time and sipped at his own, drawing strength for the hours ahead.

"It seems that way," he said. "The problem we have is that my team were undercover with the UDA when they found out. If we foil the assassination, their cover will be blown. If we let the assassination go ahead, we lose the peace process… And your good self, of course."

Mallon raised a smile. "I'm touched by your obvious concern for my safety and well-being, Harry. Dearbhla and the kids will be grateful."

Whatever differences they had, they were at least singing from the same hymn sheet. The only way they would ever save each other's lives was for tactical reasons, rather than there ever being any love between them. Underneath it all, they understood one another and the rules of the game they played. But Mallon looked thoughtful. His heavy brow creased into a frown as he regarded his feet.

"You got your girl back then? The one the UDA took."

In the panic of the last few days, Harry had forgotten even telling him about Beth.

"Actually, no," he replied, sighing heavily. "No, we don't have her back."

Clearly surprised, Mallon looked up, over to Harry. "If you stop my assassination and they realise – as you say they will – that the information came from within, they will kill her. You are aware of that, aren't you?"

"Acutely," replied Harry. "My one major hope is that she is too valuable an asset to them to kill. That buys us time."

"Oh, Harry," Sean replied, half-smiling. "You're crediting the UDA with brains here, aren't you? Those boys haven't a single strategic thought in their collective heads. They'll nut her the minute they realise I'm still alive."

"But they won't realise you're alive," Harry stated, with more confidence than he felt. "You're due to be assassinated at eight o clock this morning. As I said, my team are undercover with the UDA hit squad sent to kill you. My Section Head is currently coordinating Special Branch in key places the length of the Falls and Andersonstown Road; my Analyst and techie are getting ready to monitor every CCTV camera and comms all the way from east to west Belfast. We're tracking their every move. After eight o clock this morning, someone will call at the door and as soon as they see the landing light go on, they'll shoot through the doors and through the living room window. Then, the gunmen will run for it and send a message to their chiefs that the hit has been done. After that, they will run straight into our checkpoints."

For a long moment, Mallon absorbed all this information along with his whiskey. "You have my assassination all planned out, don't you?"

Harry knocked back the rest of his whiskey. "You did know this wasn't a social call."

"So, do I have to squirt ketchup all over myself and lie in the doorway?"

"Not right now," Harry replied. "It'd give the game away if you were dead before they even got here. In all seriousness, we do have to answer the intercom and get back to safety before the shooting begins. A space of time lasting roughly a split second."

"Now just hold up there a minute," Mallon interjected. "Why am I not just joining my missus round her brother's house right now? Why am I acting as bait for these British assassins for the benefit of one of your Crown spies?"

"Because you want this Loyalist death squad off the streets as much as we do," replied Harry. "Because I know one of them is an old mutual acquaintance of ours. He's using the name Andrew Gillan, but his real name is Paul Kendall-"

"Paul Kendall is dead!" Mallon cut in again. "They're tearing up the countryside looking for his bones."

Harry set his empty glass down on the coffee table and fished inside his jacket pocket for the photograph of the unknown soldier.

"You gave me this photo on Wednesday afternoon," he said, showing it to the other man. "You said you saw this man killed, shot by an IRA man called Brendan O'Connell."

Mallon nodded. "Aye, but that O'Connell character turned out to be one of your men, working undercover."

"Which you already suspected," Harry stated. "So he proved himself to you by luring the real spy to the bar that night in Crossmaglen and holding a show trial for your benefit. He gave you two photographs, one of me and this one, and told you the first of us to arrive was the real spy."

Mallon's eyes unfocused for a moment as he tried to wrap his head around the subterfuge. "So, Brendan O'Connell was really Paul Kendall and it was Paul Kendall who shot that boy in the photograph. That I know; I saw him do it myself-"

"And I was there that night, Kendall told me to be there. I saw you leave. You had Dearbhla with you; she was wearing a light blue coat and I saw you walking away together in the snow."

"If you had arrived twenty minutes earlier, it would have been you with the gun to your head that night; is that what you're telling me?" asked Mallon, agitated now.

That night rushed back to Harry again: the snow, the run down town with the republican graffiti scrawled across the walls. A single gunshot shattering the still night air. He hid outside, scared out of his wits as Kendall burrowed deep undercover. Harry held up the black and white photograph of the teenage recruit.

"This man was killed that night, he took the bullet I heard," he explained, still scarce believing it himself. "Paul Kendall shot him, then stole his identity. This person is the real Andrew Gillen – a registered missing person; he is the one buried in an unmarked grave somewhere and we're about to find that out. Paul Kendall knows we're closing in on him, that's why you're being targeted now. That's why I was targeted before I even got here; that's why my agent has been abducted from the streets. That's why the partner of one of my Officers was abducted from his home because he'd been poking around in the real Andrew Gillen's files. Paul Kendall is alive; he is behind everything that's been happening here."

Agitated, Mallon got to his feet and paced the living room floor. He made a number of attempts to articulate whatever was going through his head, but the twisting and turning and years gone by since he even saw any of these people were defeating him. He looked like a man who had walked into a room half way through the telling of the story.

The beauty of it was that even though the real Paul Kendall knew they were closing in on him; they did not. They walked blindly into the quagmire and Kendall was able to circumvent them before they even had a chance to slide the first piece of the puzzle into place. But Harry went through the time line again: the talks were announced, the search for the Disappeared resumed with emphasis on 'Paul Kendall'; then the mystery visitor broke into the homes of several Section D members on the same night that Oliver Jones vanished, so soon after making public enquiries about the whereabouts of Andrew Gillan – a soldier in Northern Ireland, missing since 1976. Now someone was trying to take out the only other person connected with all the others: Sean Mallon. He, Ruth and Ros had pieced it all together.

Mallon looked faint, so Harry himself reached for the whiskey.

"The hit on Kyle McCracken a few days ago," said Sean, distantly. "I didn't get the warning from the Dissidents: it came from the UDA."

Harry froze, half-way through topping up their glasses. "What?"

"The warning about that bomb attack on the First Minister came to me through my contacts inside the Continuity IRA, but they picked it up from the UDA in one of their hideouts in East Belfast," he explained, more fully. "They dropped that information in front of people knowing it would get back to me. So if that is your old Army friend, he's taking out problematic members of his own side, too."

Harry swore under his breath. "Let's just survive this assassination and see where we are after that."

* * *

They approached Andersonstown via the Crumlin Road. In the same black taxi they used the night before, during the 'tour'. It was still too early for most to be about, but already commuters were starting to make up the bulk of the traffic, steadily fanning out as they left the main city. Nathan checked under the back seat of the taxi, where the driver had hidden the assault rifle amidst the fixings. Satisfied the weapons were still in place, he patted down the pocket of his jacket, where his own handgun had been secured. With everything in place, he drew a deep breath and tried to relax.

Once passed the old Crumlin Road goal, they turned right on to the Falls Road. Nathan remembered the Royal Victoria Hospital from the night before, but made another note of its location. Beside him, Ros sat straight backed and tight jawed as she surveyed the rows of houses they passed. Unable to say anything to each other directly, they made furtive stabs at small talk while maintaining cover.

"You're nervous," said the driver, glancing into the rear view mirror. "Don't be. Someone's already in place to buzz the intercom; then just wait for the lights to come on."

Ros' expression didn't waver. "I think we can handle it," she stated, flatly. "It's not like we haven't done it before."

Nathan studied her for a moment, wondering how she could be so glacially relaxed so soon before gunning down a house she knew had her boss and a valuable asset inside it. They would be firing to miss, but it still made Nathan's stomach twist painfully. She didn't look back at him at all. Instead, she toyed with the phone they would be using to film the "assassination" – footage that would be sent to the UDA leadership as proof of the hit. Cover maintained, but at a terrible risk.

They drew to a halt outside a house with blacked out windows. Only then did Ros and Nathan exchange a look.

"This is it," she said. "Get ready."

He replied with a nod before addressing the driver. "Are you aiming at the door or the windows?"

"I'll cover the front windows," he replied. "You shoot through the door."

He wondered where Harry was. By now he would be out of the house, maybe round the back. But there was no way of telling. Glancing over the neighbour's houses, it looked as if they had already been evacuated. Only the lights had been left on and the windows left ajar in case of any grenades. But there were none that Nathan could see; only firearms had been secreted about the taxi and Ros had already disarmed some of them. They already had enough evidence to pass on to Special Branch. Only Beth remained, and possibly Ollie. As he had throughout the operation, Nathan shut those thoughts down, focusing on the target house.

"Here's our man," said the driver.

Both he and the passenger, another of the UDA henchmen, pulled down their masks. The engine was left running, ready for their getaway. Nathan watched, fixing a scarf over his lower face as a man rang Sean Mallon's intercom. He was dressed in Royal Mail uniform – stolen, no doubt, from a real postman who was now locked in a van somewhere. The windows lowered to the midway point while both the driver and Nathan trained their weapons on the house, one hand reaching beneath his jacket for the handgun.

Neither could hear what was being said, but the stooge was talking into the intercom. Mallon was in place on the other side of the door; the lights flicked on inside the house and the messenger ducked around the corner.

"Now!"

Nathan didn't know who spoke, but a split moment later gun shots shattered the morning silence. A resounding crack as the high velocity rounds ricocheted off the front wall of the house, smashed through the glass of the living room windows and sprayed across the front door. He didn't even realise he had pulled the trigger until the smoke was clearing. Then Ros leaned in close to him, where he was half kneeling on the backseat, weapon still aimed at the house.

"We're done, bring them in," she whispered low in his ear.

She slipped the phone into her jacket pocket as the engine revved again. Without looking at her, he pulled out the handgun and directed it at the driver's head. Ros had done the same with the passenger. From the corner of his eye, Nathan could see the messenger being apprehended by Special Branch at the corner of the road. Another vehicle was caught in a road block that had sprung up out of nowhere. Meanwhile, they pulled back the hammer of the guns.

"Hands where we can see them and get out of the car," said Ros. "Now."

With one hand, Nathan opened his door and sidled out of the vehicle. All the while, the gun was kept trained on the driver. Their faces were still hidden by the masks; eyeholes stretched and distorted – eyes dilated with the realisation of betrayal. Nathan's heartbeat was still hammering against his ribs, adrenaline coursing through him as he ordered the cornered terrorists to their knees. Even when Ros appeared on the opposite side of the taxi, repeating Nathan's actions, he still felt himself struggling to keep his nerves under control.

"Phone your Brigadier and tell them it is done and Mallon is dead," he said. "We've already sent them the footage. We want our agent back, in one piece. If she is harmed in any way, we will kill you."

Ros glanced over the roof of the taxi at him, nodding approvingly as Special Branch moved in to assist them.

* * *

Harry held his breath as the bullets came crashing through the walls and windows. The shattering glass seemed to take forever and a day to finally settle again. When it did, he released the breath in a long sigh. Squashed into the coal bunker alongside him, Sean Mallon did the same. Through a chink of light, falling through a crack in the wooden door, he could see the IRA chief's eyes close in relief. The rapid gunfire faded into silence, a silence that held for several long minutes as they both processed what happened.

"Jesus," said Mallon, eventually. "They meant business this time, didn't they?"

Harry nudged the bunker door with his foot, letting it swing open on its rusting hinges. Blinking into the sudden morning light, he was grateful to get the smell of ancient coal dust from out of his nostrils. The walls were still black and neglected from the stuff.

"Ready to inspect the damage?" he asked, glancing at Mallon apologetically.

Mallon nodded. Together they stepped back outside, into the back yard. But they only re-entered the house through the back kitchen door. One of the bullets had smashed through the front door, through the hallway and exited through the kitchen window. The casing now lay in the grass in the back garden, where Harry could see the brass glimmering dully. Otherwise, the kitchen was untouched.

The hallway was still in darkness now that the lightbulb had been shot out. Both men leaned over the doorway to look out first, before setting foot there. Bullet holes now riddled the doorway, letting in slanting shafts of morning light. A strange, strobe effect lifting the gloom. But, the worst of the damage was done to the living room. Where Mary once knelt in eternal prayer was now a pile of dust amidst chunks of plaster, the Mass card blown across the room. The curtains billowed on the breeze coming through the shattered windows, swelling like ghosts among the carnage.

"There's going to be reports of your death on the BBC website soon," Harry said. "I hope you don't mind, but my Analyst is writing your obituary, too."

Mallon looked pleasantly surprised. "It's not every day a man gets to read his own obituary. Thank her for me!"

Harry laughed drily. "Just make sure your people in Sinn Fein and the Provisionals know you're actually alive and well. We just need to fool the UDA into thinking you're dead."

"That won't be hard," Mallon retorted. "Fucking eejits, the lot of them."

Before Harry could reply, a frantic hammering came at the door. Knocking so hard loosened plaster fell from the ceiling in a thick cloud.

"Harry! Sir Harry!"

It was Nathan, sounding panicked and anxious. Harry crossed over to the door and managed to pull it open, with difficulty since a bullet or two had hit the hinges. The young agent almost fell through the door as it swung open; Harry had to catch his fall. Breathlessly, he straightened himself up, glancing from Harry to Mallon and back again.

"We got them," he panted. "We got them all as they tried to escape. They're going to let Beth go."

Harry would believe it as soon they had Beth back safely, in one piece and under their protection again and not a moment sooner. But over Nathan's shoulder, he could see the gunmen being cuffed and bundled into the back of a police van. They were not going to be able to keep the truth under wraps for long, so they had to act fast.

"Nathan, wait outside with Ros and we'll go to the station together," he said. "I'll be out in a minute. Call Ruth and let her know what's happened: she'll be worried sick."

Nathan nodded, before stumbling back outside, to where Ros was waiting beside a Special Branch vehicle. She and Harry exchanged a nod before he shut the door again.

"We'll pay for the damage, don't worry about that," he said.

"I'm not," replied Mallon. "Worried, that it. I'm not. But Harry, before you go, if you need help getting your girl back then give me a shout. I'll be happy to do it."

Just as he was about to trot out generic terms of gratitude, Harry stopped himself. He recognised a turning point when he saw one. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, remembering the bad old days when the likes him and the likes of Mallon only ever killed each other.

"Be at the Grosvenor Road police station in half an hour," Harry replied, at length. "I think you'll be needed." He was about to walk away, when he paused and looked back at the old enemy. "And thank you," he added.

* * *

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	18. Is This It?

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Is This It? **

Ruth's hands shook as she fished inside her handbag for her purse. After a good few seconds of rummaging, she found it buried among the scrunched up hankies and chewing gum wrappers and matted make up brushes that populated all her handbags. Aware that she was holding up the taxi driver, she dragged out a twenty pound note and thrust it towards the driver through the gap between the front seats.

"Keep the change," she said. The driver's reply was lost to her as her gaze alighted upon the police station. It was built like Fort Knox, ringed by a fifty foot high corrugated steel wall topped with razor wire. Even the CCTV cameras, mounted on long poles at the top of watch towers, were encased in metal barred cages. The windows of the watch towers were tinted black, made from bullet proof glass. "Er, how do I get in?"

There was no gate to be seen anywhere. Only a barrier over the driveway with a sign that strictly forbade civilian vehicles and pedestrians to enter. Even that was blocked off by a steel door on the other side. The driver pointed to the right of the main driveway barriers.

"There's a wee gate there," he said. "You ring the buzzer, they'll open the cage and then the main door opens. Then you're in."

She glanced sidelong at the driver, half-suspecting the grounds were also patrolled by lions. "Thank you."

Once on the pavement, the driver pulled away and she hoisted her bag back on her shoulder. She could see now that there was a sort of porch way, made out of a form of reinforced chicken wire she could not put a proper name to. A camera actually followed her as she approached the gate, where a turnstile came into view. Turning to face the lens so the guards in the tower could get a good look at her, she rang the aforementioned buzzer. An electronic buzz signified the opening of the gates, the unlocking of the turnstile and Ruth was in.

Finding the grounds of the station free of lions, she was relieved to see that the station was like any other once through the ring of steel security. The old RUC era jeeps were still in commission: they looked like daleks spray painted white. All bullet and bomb proof, their bodywork was stained by old paint bombs. Streaks of hot pink and luminous green smattered down the sides like technicolour bird shit. CCTV cameras mounted on the tops, caged in reinforced mesh boxes once more. Clutching her handbag, she walked past the rows of jeeps and entered the building via the main doors, into a reception accessed through a metal detector. Even in there, the reception desk was closed off with bullet proof glass and she spoke to the officer on duty through an intercom system.

She was still trembling. It didn't stop until Harry finally appeared through a side door looking tired, but mercifully in one piece. Her sigh of relief was audible, bringing another tremor of nerves that quickly abated.

"Jesus, Harry, I was worried sick," she said, keeping her voice down. "Ever since the shooting…"

Her words trailed off as Harry took her hands in his own. "We're fine. Everything is fine. But we still need to get Beth back."

Any further intimacy was ruled out by their surroundings, so Ruth followed him through the station. PSNI Officers were waiting just beyond the doors to escort them to the interview room where the UDA assassins were being held to await due course. Ruth nodded to them, but their grim set features dissuaded her from attempting small talk. The interior of the station was sparse, but functional. Posters were tacked to every door, giving bold and highlighted instructions on what to do in the event of a bomb or shooting. They turned a corner, where Nathan came into view. He was leaning against the wall, gripping a cardboard coffee cup in a stranglehold. Straightening up smartly as they came into view, he quickly looked alert and sharp.

"He made the call, but no one knows what's happening."

Ruth stopped at his side, wondering what he was talking about before Harry filled her in.

"The people holding Beth know the assassination went ahead and they've been told it was a success," he said. "They've also been instructed to release Beth, but we still don't know where she's being held."

"Do you really think they'll let her go? Just like that," she asked.

"We need to search the address," Nathan pointed out.

"Who've we got in here?" asked Ruth. "Who's in there with him now?"

"Ros is in there," replied Harry. "The suspect's name is Thomas White."

"Well, let's get on with it," Ruth cut in. "Lead the way."

The Officers unlocked the door and held it open for them to re-enter. Harry first, then Nathan stood aside and nodded to Ruth to go first. The sight that greeted her inside the cell was equally as grim as the one that met her outside. Drab grey walls stained by prisoners past; a single window set high in the wall, rendered almost pointless by the thick bars that criss-crossed it. Then there was Ros, sat at the table staring down a hard faced young man with a heavy set, dark brow. The overhead light shining directly downwards cast all their faces into half-shadow.

Ruth, Harry and Nathan lined up against the back wall while Ros did all the talking. Their presence alone, silent and foreboding, was usually enough to loosen the tongues of the interviewees. But Thomas White barely glanced at them. He had been trained. If Harry's theory was right, and it was the undead Paul Kendall who was pulling the strings, he had been trained by someone who knew what they were doing.

"What's stopping you from telling us where our agent is being killed?" asked Ros. "Are there more attacks planned?"

Ruth retrieved her iPad from her handbag and handed it to Ros. "The files are loaded on there."

Completely unable to bring the paper files with her, Tariq had spent the morning digitalising them and loading them on to the iPad. Ros took it from her and started going through the menu, while Ruth returned to her spot by the back wall, with Harry and Nathan. But Ruth was watching White's reactions carefully.

"He was one of the gunmen this morning," Nathan whispered in her ear.

Nathan himself was the other gunman. Ruth briefly turned to him, but his attention had returned to the interrogation playing out in front of them. White was looking at something on the screen of the iPad, but Ruth couldn't tell what it was. To the right of her, Harry grew rigid as he scowled over at the suspect. The other suspects were in neighbouring cells, but it was the driver and lead gunman who interested them most.

"This man is your commander," said Ros. It wasn't a question. "He set up the assassination. He recruited you to carry it out. He's holding hostages in an unknown location. Give us the location, and we might be able to cut you a deal."

The net was already closing, Ruth thought to herself, surely he could already see that. But the man barely flinched and the poor lighting meant she could not read his expression at all. But then he finally spoke: "Sean Mallon is dead. I killed him myself. You'll throw me to the dogs the first opportunity you get."

Beside her, Harry relaxed. He stepped forwards, footfalls light on the cracked linoleum. "What if he isn't?" he asked, leaning over White. He spoke low in the man's ear, almost seductively. "What if he's alive, and we tell your commander that it was you who let him get away-"

"He'll think you're bullshitting," White cut in. But the tremor in his voice betrayed the nerves he felt. "And Mallon is dead."

"We both know that's not the case," Harry pointed out, taking the seat next to him. "Mallon escaped and we both know your Commander will blame you, so you might as well help us and see if we can't come to some arrangement."

Ros quickly followed Harry's lead, just as one of the Officers slipped out of the door. "Tell us where they are, and we'll take out your commanders before they can get to you. Otherwise, they will kill you."

He was cornered. Without realising it, Ruth huddled closer to Nathan as they inched forwards. All escape routes blocked. For the first time, White looked up at her; their eyes meeting through the poor light and narrow distance. The door opened as the Officer returned with a newcomer in tow. Ruth only recognised Sean Mallon from his files back at Thames House. But he was unmistakably alive and well. The would be assassin and his intended victim looked at each other, the last escape route cauterised and sealed.

"All right, Tom," said Mallon, a smile curling the corner of his lip. He was like a cat in the moments before it pounced on its prey. "Good of you to drop by this morning. I'm sure your commander will be chuffed to hear you let me live."

They would forge a friendship, if need be. They would make it look as if White had been secretly working for the IRA all along and throw him to the ravenous UDA pack in a heartbeat. But Ruth already knew that wouldn't be necessary. White cracked and the others would crack in due course. For now, White was wise enough to know he had no distance left to run and started talking.

"He calls himself Andrew Gillan, but that's not his real name," he began. Everyone was listening now. "No one knows who he really is. That is, no one knew him before. But he's professionally trained. He said, even back in the seventies, the British were doing nothing to stop the IRA and, secretly, wanted to give us up. They were going to sell us to Dublin after the Sunningdale Agreement was signed. That was going to be the first step. The IRA were laughing at us and the Brits were unwilling to do anything. Then the IRA colluded with the RUC to kill a UVF man, so the police were turning on us too-"

"As interesting as this History lesson is," Ros cut in, to everyone else's relief. "Get to the point. Where is Andrew Gillan now? Is he with the hostages? And yes, we know there's more than one."

White hesitated, as though some cavalry charge may come riding through the station to rescue him before he became a proper traitor. His eye lingering over the door that remained firmly shut.

"There's an old farm house outside Belfast, in a place called Comber," he said, tonelessly. Ruth could see he had withdrawn inside, it's not really him betraying his own cause. "He's there. So are they. It's called Ulsterville Farm, it's on the Newtonabbey Road."

Nathan had input the address into his phone, while Harry and Ros both got to their feet again. The Officers showed them out; their use for the suspect done. Surprisingly to Ruth, even Sean Mallon followed them out.

"Harry," said the IRA man. "I know this place, you don't. I can take three in my car, everyone else can follow behind us. It won't take half hour."

Harry smiled and zipped up his coat. Ros got on the phone to Lucas, while Nathan revved the engine on a car loaned to them by Special Branch. Whatever state they found Beth in, Ruth knew there would be blood before the day was done.

* * *

Beth stirred, but did not fully awaken. Another loud thump sounded from below, jolting her more violently. Her eyelids fluttered open, before the lethargy settled again. She was still in the attic, still breathing in the dust and fibre glass. Still sweltering during the day and freezing during the nights – it was the only way she could mark the passage of time.

The sound of voices raised in panic reached her. Muffled and incomprehensible, but there was no mistaking the tone. Running feet and slamming doors. Car engines revving outside. Scenarios started running through her head: she was being left there to die; they were fleeing and burning the house down before they went. All manner of nightmares that ended with a grisly death for her, and for 'the other'.

The Other One played her mind. More so when there was nothing else to play on her mind. Men came into her attic and asked the same questions over and over again. She gave the same answers over and over again. The men went away. That was her days in captivity. It was so uneventful it almost made her paranoid. But now, clearly, everything had changed again. The commotion she could only hear continued. She tried to pull herself upright, but her wrists and feet were still bound. Her head still throbbed from where she was knocked unconscious before her abduction. Now, her body grew weak through lack of sustenance and her head started spinning like a top whenever she moved.

"Shit, shit, shit!" she cursed fluidly, rolling over onto her back.

Just when she thought her captors were all fleeing, a sudden influx of light made her curse even harder. She screwed her eyes shut, fearing she was now merely being moved to another location. But angry voices shouted out, each on top of the other so she couldn't even keep track.

"Just leave her!"

"Cut the ropes-"

"Fuck that, we can't leave her here."

"No, just cut the fucking ropes and let's go!"

A gun was pressed to her head as a knife started sawing through her bindings. Still blinded by the light, she kept her eyes shut and remained stock still. Not even breathing, so her chest didn't even move, she waited. Suddenly, her wrists were free. She heard feet running back down the steps, one man even jumped down from the attic, landing heavily and cursing loud.

"What's going on?" she asked, her throat dry and sore.

The barrel of the gun was still digging into her temple, but she realised there was only one person left with her in the attic.

"I should kill you now," said the man.

He was standing over her, but her feet were still bound.

"Tough shit," she said, elbowing him hard as she could in the crotch.

Taken by surprise, the man cried out in pain as the gun landed on Beth's chest. She grabbed it, pointing it towards the man.

"Untie my feet, and I'll let you go," she said.

The safety catch was already off, and this was her gun taken from her on the day of her abduction. It sat in her hands as snug as a new born. Her abductor now shrinking back, flinching like she was about to hit him. Now, anger swelled inside her. She knew she would not hesitate to pull the trigger and the consequences be damned.

"Untie me," she commanded again.

Slowly, like a creeping penitent, her abductor inched forwards with his hands covering his head.

* * *

They arrived together in a mass of speeding confusion. Vehicles swerving dangerously around narrow country lanes before pulling up outside the farm house. Harry, travelling in Sean Mallon's car, arrived first. Nathan could see them both stepping out into the drizzling rain; rain that was growing heavier by the minute. Ruth was with him, Nathan, in his Special Branch car and the rest of the team was crammed into a third.

But before they could even get their bearings, the first shots were fired. They smashed through the windscreen of Sean's car, sending both him and Harry scattering for cover.

"Shit!" he cursed, swerving into a verge outside the farm house.

"Nathan, get down," Ruth hissed as she pressed herself against the back seat.

As soon as the engine was shut off, he ordered Ruth to stay there while he opened the door. Retrieving his gun from the glove compartment, he lowered himself out of the door and crawled over to where Ros and Lucas had also drawn to a halt. But the gun shots ceased as soon as they had started. The air was filled with the sounds of birds taking sudden flight from restless treetops. But soon, that also faded into nothing.

Harry and Mallon soon returned to Nathan's line of vision. Cautious and nervous, they signalled for the others to join them.

"Special Branch took out the gunman," Harry informed them, keeping his tone down. "But there could be others."

"We need to get to the farmhouse," said Ros, breathlessly. "That's where they'll be."

Nathan, wet and freezing, scanned the lay out. The main farm house was no more than a few hundred yards away. Empty barns with caved in roofs sat either side of the house itself. Abandoned machinery rusted in the yard, jagged and lethal looking with old diesel spilling into puddles and poisoning the earth. Like the house in East Belfast, the windows were boarded up and a solitary Union Jack hung damp and limp from the second floor.

Already, black clad shapes of Special Branch were closing in on the house. Emboldened, Nathan moved forwards. Rather than calling him back Ros, Lucas and Harry followed him.

"There's nothing to stop us going in now," he said. "There's no one left."

Another shot rang out, but it was only Special Branch. A signal went up, letting them know it was friendly fire aimed at a fleeing animal. Nathan kept his gun at the ready all the same, and inched ever forwards.

"Are they going inside, or just securing the grounds?" he asked, leaning back towards Ros.

"Securing the grounds, for now," she replied. "Ask one to break the door down for us. We all go in together."

Moments after the request was given, a battering ram was taken from the back of one of the jeeps, followed by a crash that shook the whole building. There was still people in there; Nathan was certain of it, and not just their own people. He hung back, letting Ros and Lucas take the lead as he looked up at the house. It was old and dilapidated; unused and unwanted by anyone. But there was nothing to see, nothing that helped.

It wasn't until Harry almost bumped into him that he got moving again.

"Do you think they're in there still?" asked Nathan, looking up at his boss.

Like the rest of them, Harry was armed. Even the IRA man had procured a gun from somewhere.

"We'll find out soon enough," he replied.

And if they were not, they would be taken away and killed. None of them said it out loud, but they knew it to be true.

They gathered at the smashed in door in a cold, damp huddle. For what seemed an age, they all looked in on the deserted hallway as they steeled themselves to go inside.

"Ros, you search downstairs with me and Mallon," Harry instructed. "Lucas and Nathan, you go upstairs and search the first floor. Weapons at the ready at all times. There could still be gunmen inside."

No one argued. Inside, it was dark and damp. The floorboards had been wrenched up in places and the stairs leading to the first floor were treacherous. Lucas led the way, insisting that Nathan remain close behind. But once they reached the landing, they were forced to separate. The corridor led off to the left and right, round a corner that they couldn't see in the poor light. None of the actual overhead lights were working, so they had to go their separate ways and feel their way along the walls.

Not one minute after they parted ways, a woman screamed. Nathan whirled round, gun aimed directly in front of him and pointing down the narrow passage way. Seconds after the scream, a body was thrown down an attic door, landing in a heap on the floor with his skull caved in by a single bullet.

"Lucas!"

It was Beth. Nathan sagged against the wall as the others suddenly made a dash up the stairs.

"Harry! Ros! We need help up here!"

When Lucas appeared again, he was half carrying Beth, half dragging her down the passage way, towards the stairs. Once they were met by Ros and Harry, Nathan allowed himself to breathe again. She was trying to talk, but he could not make out what she was saying because the others had crowded around her. Nathan broke off further, backing down the corridor slowly.

There was a bathroom that looked as though it had been in recent use. Then came a spare bedroom containing one dead gunman, killed by Special Branch not ten minutes previously. Nathan accidentally trod in the man's blood, making him feel sick with disgust. Everyone was clearing Beth out of the house now. He could hear them retreating down the stairs again. But he remained, dangerously alone.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe Olly wasn't there. But he knew he couldn't walk away. He tried every door he came to, until he reach one that was locked from the outside. Carefully, he placed his gun at his feet and tried the door again. It rattled, but did not give and no one made a sound within. Taking a few paces back, he launched himself at the door and kicked it square over the lock with all his might. It smashed inwards in a shower of dust and splinters to reveal a small box room. A single bed had been overturned in the corner, the busted mattress pulled half off and sloping to the ground to form a sort of shelter. He stepped inside, neglecting to bring his gun.

"It's me," he said, to the feet he could just see protruding from under the mattress. "It's safe now, Olly."

His voice was choked, he could feel himself trembling from head to foot. Still he hesitated. Fear, or something like it. Fear of what they had done to him. Fear of how he would react. It made his stomach churn. The feet withdrew sharply, the mattress shivered and suddenly was thrown to one side as he jumped clean into Nathan's arms. Nathan caught him just in time, but staggered back against the wall as they held each other tight.

He stank like death itself, his bones now protruded through his skin and he was shaking like the last leaf on a dead tree. But it was Olly, and they gripped each other tight, faces buried in each other's shoulders. After a moment almost welded to each other, Nathan pulled away to get a proper look at him. Two eyes, two ears, nose and mouth. Hair like a busted sofa, but even that was nothing new. Skinny, exhausted and in need of a hot shower, but otherwise perfect. Nathan smiled, almost laughed then gave in.

"I knew you'd come," said Olly, hoarsely. "Seriously, what the fuck is going on? I have no idea what these people want."

"Later," Nathan promised. "Just, later."

But Northern Ireland was never that simple. It never let go that easily. Nathan let Olly lean on him, but they turned to find the door blocked. His gun, left in the door way, was now trained on them both. The masked man one Nathan had never seen before. Masked, but with holes torn into it in all the wrong places. Greying hair was poking through; grey blue eyes on show. Nathan let Oliver go, easing him back down onto the mattress that now lay completely on the floor.

"It's me you really want," said Nathan, raising his hands in a manner of surrender. He could feel Oliver looking at him, stunned. But he wasn't done yet. "Leave him be. It's me you want. I'm MI5 – he's nobody."

The newcomer renewed his grip on the weapon, directing it straight at Nathan's head. "Who are you?" the man asked, in that peculiar mix of an English and Irish accent.

"I am Nathan Fraser," he said, confidently. "You may have thought he was useful, but not as much as me."

The gun lowered and Nathan seized his chance. He launched himself at the man in a rugby tackle, propelling him backwards.

"Olly, run!" he bellowed over his shoulder. "Just run."

To his frustration, Olly dithered, about to protest. But Nathan merely shouted at him again while he wrestled their assailant at the same time. "I'll follow, just bloody go already!"

Drawing whatever strength he had left, Olly managed to push past them both and run down the corridor outside. Nathan pulled himself up and reached for his gun. It was a fatal delay as the older man overpowered him once more and dragged him back to his feet.

"You're coming with me," the other man said, low in his ear.

He could feel the barrel of the gun digging into the back of his neck. "Where?"

"Just walk."

With no other choice, he let himself be frogmarched outside. Out into the pouring rain through the back door and into a gravelled courtyard. Everyone else was round the front of the building and Nathan didn't even know whether this place was accessible from there. There was a low wall forming the boundary of what was once a milking barn. He was pushed and shoved over to it and forced to kneel in the gathering puddles.

"What now?" he demanded. "What the fuck are you doing now?"

The rain fell harder now, he was soaked to the bone. But he remained kneeling, facing the wall. If he was about to be shot, there wouldn't be much mess. If it happened, he didn't even think it would hurt. Swift. Clean. Painless. Final.

"Why didn't you go after Olly?" he asked. "You let him get away."

"Who else is going to tell Harry Pearce you're here."

Despite the terror that had settled cold over his heart, Nathan almost laughed. "He'll kill you. He's one of the best at this. He'll kill you with a shot to the head and you won't even know about it."

He was silenced with a nudge of the gun to his head. He could feel it cold and solid against the side of his head, behind his ear. Once, his grandmother took him to Church, but he never did believe in God. No final prayers came. No last minute conversion. Instead, it was his father who came to him. In those final moments, only his father.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" asked Nathan. Just get it over with. He was cold and wet and he wanted to go home. The gun pressed in harder, forcing his head to incline sideways. Nathan looked up at the falling rain and closed his eyes as the gunshot rang out. Hot blood sprayed out, he could feel it running down his neck and in his hair.

_Is this it?_ He thought.

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**Thank you again for reading, reviews would be very welcome. Thank you.**


	19. Landslide

**Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Landslide**

A flock of birds had been startled into flight as the echo of the gunshot faded across the grounds. But it was the rain, trickling down his neck and beneath the collar of his blood smattered shirt that let Nathan know he still existed. It was the continued beating of his heart, hammering uncomfortably against his breastbone at thrice its normal speed. The thump of a body that was not his own hitting the ground behind him, landing with a splash in a muddy puddle. Reluctant to see what he had just heard, he opened his eyes again and kept his gaze on the wall until the gunman helped him back to his feet.

"That was close."

Harry sounded casual. Nathan turned to face him as he strode across the yard, still struggling to regain the power of speech as he stammered out a 'thank you'. Still not quite trusting his legs to hold him up, he leaned against the wall while Harry nudged the corpse with the toe of his shoe. A look of distant sadness now clouded his eyes as the body of Paul Kendall rolled onto its back. The rain pattered into his dead, grey eyes. The woollen mask pulled from his head, was now lying in the mud.

"I'm sorry," said Nathan, calming enough to speak clearly. "If I'd had my wits about me, we could have taken him alive."

Harry was still transfixed by the dead man. "In my experience, it doesn't do to dwell on 'what-ifs'. That way madness lies." It was addressed more to Kendall than to Nathan. Then finally, he looked up, meeting his gaze. "For heaven's sake, keep your gun with you next time."

Nathan could feel himself flushing red as he cast about for a suitable response. But Harry spared him the effort as he led the way from the scene. They were both relieved to be away from the derelict farmhouse and back among the others. Neither had heard the sirens, but ambulances had already arrived. A faint blue light cast around the wet grounds; Beth being helped by Ros into the back of one.

Ruth was leaning against the back of one of the Special Branch cars, looking exhausted and bewildered. Until she spotted Harry pushing through the crowd of medics, policemen and Special Branch crews. Deciding they definitely needed some time alone, Nathan broke away to look for Olly.

"I don't need Hospital; I need a bath…"

His voice cut through the noise of the crowds, bringing Nathan to a halt. Raising the ghost of a smile, he looked back over his shoulder where the man himself was being cajoled into the open back of an ambulance, shrinking back from a paramedic with an IV line. He hates needles; he always has done.

"Do you want me to hold your hand?" he asked, to weary to laugh but his tone was light.

The two of them looked at each other, Nathan noticing the other man's week-old beard properly for the first time. "A bath's not all you need, either, by the way."

He closed the gap between them, his head buzzing with questions. But Olly was still dressed in the pyjamas he wore the night he was taken; paramedics were seething over dehydration levels and they were both fit to drop.

"I need you too, come with me," he said.

"Gladly," replied Nathan, stepping towards the ambulance.

* * *

Bulldozers cut a path though the great mounds of earth, while diggers kept adding to the collection. Great, rolling mountains of dirt where the bog land was torn up by heavy machinery. In their wake, men in white boiler suits searched for the Disappeared. Victims' families had come in the night to tie small bouquets of flowers to the perimeter fences, their cellophane wrappings rustling in the strengthening winds. Others left small black and white photos of the dead, whose bodies had lain undiscovered in the wilderness.

The forensics and archaeologists were too lost in their work to notice the tremor. The topsoil slid from the highest mounds, like too much icing on a cake. It gathered momentum, increasing speed and helped by the incessant rain making the foundations unsteady. A landslide plummeting into the pits, throwing up tree roots and detritus and sending the search teams scattering. It slowly settled down again, a great morass of swampy dirt. At its heart, a muddy ribcage jutting perilously from the surface. Mud dripped from individual ribs, back into its makeshift grave. The team descends, pulling the remains out of the swamp. Cautiously revealing the complete skeleton, exposed to the elements where the fallen soldier can be washed clean by the rain.

* * *

"That will be him," said Ruth, half-focused on the news report. "The real Andrew Gillan."

Harry nodded and jabbed at the off button on the TV remote. "There are others, but Mallon was adamant that he was buried somewhere in that location."

They were back at Hillsborough, where the talks were beginning to wrap up. Beth was at the hospital, being rehydrated and having much needed rest imposed upon her. The others were already packing their bags for home. But after everything that had happened, Harry seemed reluctant. Like there was something else keeping him there.

"We may never get the whole truth, but at least we know what happened," said Ruth, trying to remain positive. "We know Kendall wasn't killed that night, in Crossmaglen. We've not only tracked Kendall down, but located the remains of the man killed in his place. That's got to count for something."

"I suppose it does," he replied. "I just wish we knew why. Why would he abandoned his post like that, and join the very people we were supposed to be fighting against? It makes no sense."

Ruth had no answers to give. She could only unravel so much before her mind went blank. Everything in Northern Ireland was entirely subjective: it depended on who you sympathised with; it depended on how you saw things. Some security forces personnel had left in protest over the treatment meted out to the Catholics; others had done the opposite. But not many had felt compelled to actually join the paramilitaries and assume stolen identities to cover their tracks. Kendall had that over the others, at least.

"When you're in the thick of a war and you feel you're not getting the assistance you need, it must be tempting to just screw it all and take sides," said Ruth. "I can quite imagine the mind-set."

They moved towards the balcony, where they could look out once more over the Mournes. It was growing dark and the air outside carried the first proper bite of winter. But the darkening mountain peaks shrouded in mist was a uniquely striking sight. One not to be found in any town or city. But that was Northern Ireland: broken and beautiful; elusive but captivating. A place where you had to peel back the veneer of war and suffering, to find a resilient heart, still beating strong against the odds. It wasn't just found in the mountains and the rugged countryside, but in the streets of the cities where the people once bled the most. There were places where the people dismantled the walls brick by brick; chinks of light breaking through the bleak grey edifice of the peace line. The fact remained: everyone had given up on Northern Ireland. It was a poisoned chalice, handed to disgraced politicians that the ruling prime ministers wanted to discreetly remove from the main London scene. It was England's beaten child, finally finding the confidence to walk away with its head held high.

Out on the balcony, Harry wrapped his arms around Ruth's waist and kissed her neck. "It's over," he said. "That's all that matters."

* * *

It wasn't the first time in his life that Nathan had woken up with his head in a sink, so he wasn't unduly alarmed. But his neck was stiff, and his arms were cramped from slumping in the chair was pushed up against the sink unit. In the bed next to the sink, Olly watched him curiously, from where he was propped up on a bank of pillows.

"That cannot be comfortable," he observed.

"You don't say."

He tried to gage what time it was. But the sky was already dark, the bright lights of Belfast formed an intricate web spread out all around. Inside the City Hospital, the other patients slept fitfully amidst the humming of machines and the flood lights of the nurse's station at the end of the ward. But the curtain was pulled fully round the bed, closing them in as best it could. Nathan rose painfully to his feet.

"I'm too bloody old for this," he said, kissing Olly's forehead. He was still hot to the touch from dehydration. "Have you slept?"

The other man nodded. "I'm fine. I just want to go home."

Nathan wasn't about to argue with that. "The Chairman's at the cattery. Just in case you were worried."

"I was more worried about you, as it happens." He raised one hand, the same one with the IV led connected, and reached for Nathan's. "They made me leave a note. I didn't think you'd realise."

Nathan squirmed as he admitted the truth. "I didn't. It was my boss. I just read the note and remembered how … well, you know. Things hadn't been right between us. Not for a while."

They each averted their gaze for a moment, gathering their thoughts. Nathan felt he had opened a new can of worms by bringing up the unhappy past. It was something they had neglected at the time; ignored it and hoped it went away.

"You were out until all hours," said Olly, finally breaking the silence. "Then you would come home tense and worked up, but wouldn't tell me what the problem was. All secretive and closed off. How did you think that looked to me?"

Nathan sighed deeply. "Surely you know I'd never cheat-"

"I thought you were back on drugs, Nathan," he cut in. "I thought you were using. And I couldn't go through that again, not even for you."

The revelation came to Nathan like a kick in the chest. It knocked the breath out of his lungs. For a long moment, they looked at each other in silence while Nathan scrabbled around for something deeply reassuring to say. But with a past like his the only way to win back people's trust was to keep his word and prove his worth through action. Don't waste breath on promises. Don't take people for fools.

"It's just the job," he finally replied. "I was going to tell you, but I wanted to get settled first. If I'd known what you suspected, I would have told you right away."

But now they knew. They both knew where they stood and the air cleared; tension levels dropping. Once the nurse had replaced the saline drip and they were alone again, Nathan steered the conversation back into professional waters. He hated to do it while Olly was still shaken and weak, but there was information he needed to get for Harry.

"So, Andrew Gillan," he began.

Olly livened up. "Yeah. Strange case. I didn't even bother looking into it too much because it was a cold case and had been since the seventies. I put that notice in the Big Issue and I asked you to ring your Dad to see if he knew anything. But I guess your towering bloody pride got in the way."

Nathan's father, ex-army and of a similar age to Gillan. He shook his head. "I did try. I promise. Ruth gave me hell for trying from my desk phone at Thames House." Changing the subject, he added: "But how did they get you here? You were still in your PJs back at that farmhouse."

"I was locked in the boot of our car," he replied, looking scandalised. "Then forced onto a fishing boat crewed by their UDA friends. We docked in a place called Kilkeel. A little fishing place close to the farm. It took hours to get across the sea from Liverpool. They kept asking all these questions about Andrew Gillan. Who he was and what was my interest in him; they thought I was MI5 and asked about Harry Pearce as well. Then they were asking about you. I kept trying to tell them that Gillan was just a missing person and his brother wanted to hear from him. Just a phone call. I had no idea who Harry Pearce was and I thought they got your name from my phone."

Nathan listened intently, trying to get his head around it all. "Don't worry about any of that. We can look after ourselves. But they found Gillan's remains in a field close to the border. Once the talks are done, he'll be brought back to England with us."

Olly raised a pained smile. He was still dazed by all that had happened during the last week. It would be the coming days and months that saw the trauma manifest, but Nathan was already preparing himself for it. Whatever happened, neither one of them would be alone for it. Not now.

* * *

Ros had her back to him. But Lucas could see she had been busy getting their bags packed, ready for the return home. Now, however, she was facing the window and looking out over the castle grounds. Silent and poised, lost in her own thoughts. He paused in the doorway and cleared his throat, drawing her attention without startling her. When she turned to face him, she was smiling. Her hair made silver in the moonlight.

"I wondered where you'd got to," she said, quietly. "How's Beth?"

He had just come from the hospital, where their Case Officer had been treated since her rescue.

"Resilient," he replied, wrapping his arms around her waist. "She'll bounce back. Beth always does."

Carefully stepping over the half-packed, open suitcases, they stepped away from the windows and into the centre of the room. There, they held each other in silence for a long moment. Each of them readjusting after the long operation that had drained not just them, but the entire team. The silence was broken as Ros drew a deep breath.

"The sooner we're home and dry, the happier I'll be," she said. "This place will always be a tinder box, just waiting to blow up."

But Lucas wasn't so sure. "I wouldn't write it off just yet. This is just a bump in the road; that's all."

The Op was resolved and no one was dead. At least, no one on their team was dead. Lucas considered anything after that to be an added bonus.

"You did well," she said, their gaze meeting as they leaned in for a kiss. "Really well."

High praise. "I proved myself then?"

"Oh, I think so."

No matter what he did, from now on, Lucas thought a part of him would always be proving himself. Years could pass, the past would still be lurking in his shadow. The only thing that had changed was that he was expecting it now. He acknowledged it and it no longer took him by surprise. So he didn't write Northern Ireland off. He no longer wrote anything off. He leaned in close, kissing her neck. "There's always hope," he whispered in her ear.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading. A review would be lovely, if you have a minute. Also, next chapter will be the last. Thanks again! **


	20. When Hope and History Rhyme

**Thank you, once more, to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; making it such a pleasure to write. **

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: When Hope and History Rhyme.**

"_History says, don't hope  
On this side of the grave.  
But then, once in a lifetime,  
The longed-for tidal wave  
Of justice can rise up,  
And hope and history rhyme."_

_(Seamus Heaney: the Cure at Troy, 1991)_

It was Sunday morning when the sunlight broke through the clouds. It came to say goodbye to the politicians as they packed up and left, ready to get on with what the public pay them for. If Harry turned to his left, he could see the First Minister, Kyle McCracken, saying farewell to Nathan. Hands are shaken; the great man almost departs, then turns back to the Junior Case Officer. Words he cannot hear are spoken, then they embrace. A fleeting, manly-man hug that makes Ruth smile. Oliver, newly released from Hospital, lingers in the shadow of the porch leading into the castle, too timid to approach the Spooks. But soon Nathan returns to him and guides him over, arm in arm as he is still unsteady on his feet. All of Nathan's eager, bullish confidence had melted away, leaving only a vast tender softness in its wake. Harry knew that look, that feeling: Ruth had teased it out of him, all those years ago.

Immediately, Ruth made a fuss of them. She reached into her handbag and started fishing about in its obscure depths. For one terrible moment, he thought she was about to dig out a hankie and spit wash their faces. But she produces nothing more than a pack of gum, offering it to them both. He decided to leave them to it.

With his hands in his pockets, he set off slowly across the lawns to soak up the last rays of autumn sun. The trees were almost bare now. Soon, the early frosts would come in. The surface of the nearby pond would freeze and the Mourne Mountains would turn white with snow. The Silent Valley would shine like the stars. He could feel the turning of the season, the on-coming change. Another rotation of a cyclical wheel. Progressing slowly, but never stopping altogether. That was the reality behind Northern Ireland in this century. It may look like everything was frozen and dead; but it was only a regeneration, another fleeting change. Spring will bring the thaw, the world will bloom once more and everything will look completely different. And so will the peace process.

He began the ascent up the gentle hill, breathing in the crisp clean air. Knowing he was not alone, he recognised the man standing at the crest of the hill. He greeted the other man with a breathless smile.

"You're out of shape if this leaves you huffing and puffing," said Sean Mallon.

His ten-mile, cross-country running days were over. That much he knew. "Unlike yourself, Sean. Still at the apex of your physical peak, I see."

"Actually no, I'm bloody knackered and my knees are killing me," he replied, sucking on a cigarette.

Harry laughed as he reached the top of the climb. It was steeper than it looked. Once they drew level, they stood in silence and looked out over the mountains. If Harry turned around, he could see Cavehill in the north and Divis to the left. The whole of Belfast was ringed by rolling, rugged mountains. The city was nestled in the heart of them, dissected down the middle by the river Lagan that opened out onto a wide lough. The Harland and Wolf cranes were tiny as matchsticks on the horizon. Distant church bells chimed from afar.

"So, did the talks achieve anything?" asked Mallon.

Harry answered honestly. "I have no idea."

Mallon laughed deeply. "You won't be the only one, I bet you that. Half those buck-eejits have no idea what they were there for."

"I suspected as much," replied Harry. "We should be grateful, though. It's a real sign of progress that your politicians are now feathering their own nests with an enthusiasm that equals their English counterparts."

Mallon was laughing again. "Just think of all those years our lot had to spend pretending they had real principles. They've a lot of making up to do, you know."

With the DUP being hit with expenses scandals and controversy over Government contracts to rejuvenate the Giant's Causeway, Stormont was already closing in on Westminster. They had also voted themselves a fat pay rise – proving themselves to be fast learners.

Together, Harry and Sean strolled along the top of the hill they had scaled, taking in the view. Only once they reached a broad, bare oak tree did they pause. Mallon turned to Harry, a frown deepening his brow.

"When I was young, I saw things in very simple terms," he said, once more scanning the horizon. "The way I looked at it was this: when the British Army came to Ireland and started carrying out operations against the Irish people; that wasn't the British Army defending Britain – that was the British Army attacking Ireland. Answer me honestly: what would you do if France decided it owned Britain and rocked up on the southern shores and began attacking? Like 1066 all over again. Would you let them take over, or would you fight them back?"

There was no anger or recrimination in Mallon's voice. He was only explaining. Attempting to show how Britain's actions looked through the eyes of Irish natives. But as he had already confessed, it was simplistic.

"But, if more than fifty percent of England's population legitimately identified themselves as French, would France not be morally obligated to protect its people from attack by hostile natives?" he countered. "More so, had France settled those Anglo-French people in England several centuries before and promised to protect them. It scarcely matters that the French have no right to be in England; the fact is they are and that's the reality we must deal with. Well, in our little hypothetical situation, at any rate."

But even so, Harry was loath to admit letting France come rolling into Britain like they owned the place. Mallon picked his nations well. But the old IRA man smiled.

"That's where the shades of grey come in," he said. "That's what we learned as time went on. That's when I realised this peace process was essential and that the IRA could not win against the British Army. We are two different cultures sharing one homeland and, one day, all the animosity will melt away. You and I will always have that lingering bitterness. But our grandkid's grandkids won't give a shit. I hope."

Harry smiled. "I share that hope, Sean. I really do."

They lapsed into a momentary silence, each lost in their own thoughts and perceptions. There was no longer any point in dragging out isolated incidents and holding them up to scrutiny and saying "this is why you're evil." They could spend another forty years doing that and it would get them precisely nowhere. Harry remembered being physically sick when he saw film footage of two plain-clothed British Army soldiers dragged from a car and beaten to death after they accidentally strayed into an IRA funeral. But three days before that, Mallon had given chase to a Loyalist Paramilitary throwing grenades into another funeral procession. One event would not have happened without the other and there was no such thing as an "isolated event". It was a deadly chain stretching back centuries, binding both countries in deadly enmity. Now, it was time to break that chain.

"It's funny how the past lingers," said Harry. "You know there's a vigil happening outside the gates of the Castle – for the peace and reconciliation committee. I passed it the other day and thought I saw an old friend of mine among them. But it cannot have been him."

"Dead?" asked Mallon.

Harry nodded. "A long time."

"I am sorry to hear that, Harry. I am sorry for us all," said Mallon. "But they agreed to set up the committee didn't they?"

"They did. That was one thing these talks did achieve. Will you be attending?"

"Maybe. If I'm called," Mallon replied. "It will either reopen old wounds; or set the past to rights. I don't know which yet."

With that, Mallon smiled and extended his hand. Harry shook it willingly.

"Go home and grow old, Harry," said Mallon. "You've earned it."

"You too, Sean."

Both men turned and walked away, each going their own direction. Separate paths, but probably leading back to the same place. At least until Harry met William Towers, who was approaching from the bottom of the hill looking worried. Harry knew that look and stopped dead in his tracks, a cold dread closing over him once more.

* * *

Ruth paid for the drinks with her credit card, handing it over to the barman with an apologetic look on her face.

"They aren't all mine," she said, gesturing to the seven pints of Guinness laid out in front of her.

Tariq appeared at her side, ready to help her carry them over to the table the team had commandeered.

"Don't listen to her, she's lying," he said, flatly. "She's incorrigible."

"Oh, ha ha."

He dextrously squeezed four of the pint pots into his hands before conveying them to team, while Ruth took up the remaining with her returned credit card between her teeth. Although nearly time to go home, it had been deemed indecent for them to have been in Ireland this long without sampling the nation's most famous delicacy. Once they were all settled, she looked around for Harry – still conspicuous by his absence.

"Harry isn't about to pass up the opportunity for a drink," said Ros. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Deciding she was right, Ruth turned her attention to her own pint. She had tried to get away with a half-glass, but the looks of scornful derision from the others had convinced her otherwise. Lifting the heavy glass to her lips, she took a tentative sip. To her, it still tasted like tar, but it was clear she was in the minority.

"I'll never be able to drink that black foetid piss you get in London, ever again," said Lucas.

"I'm surprised you were able to drink it in the first place, it's an obscenity," said Beth, newly out of hospital.

Ruth let them chatter and enjoy their drink, relishing a happy end to a complex and delicate operation. But the space beside her where Harry should have been, with its untouched pint, kept drawing her eye. Worriedly, she cast a glance over her shoulder, wondering where he had got to. Finally, he appeared looking flustered and ill-tempered. Even his tie was crooked.

"William bloody Towers," he muttered darkly, stepping round Ruth and taking the only vacant seat.

Before she could ask what was wrong, he had taken his pint and downed near half of it. Once done, he held up the glass and looked at it curiously.

"It is a lot better here, you know," he observed. "Not like that black bile they serve everywhere else."

The others laughed as he echoed Lucas' sentiments of not five minutes previously.

"Yet you still manage to put away a fair share of that black bile," Ruth observed, smiling. "Anyway, what about William bloody Towers?"

"Oh nothing," Harry waved her away. "We've time for another round, haven't we?"

"We have a plane to catch-"

"Of course we do!" everyone else cut over Ruth.

Harry had brushed her off. Ruth knew it, but wouldn't raise the issue here in front of everyone else. Instead, she sat back and let them banter until they could delay leaving no longer. Their cars were parked out the front, their luggage already being loaded into the back. Finally, it was time to go home. On their way out, they all took one last look at the castle and the mountains.

Everything empty, now that the politicians had gone. But when she looked to the gates, Ruth could see the candle lit vigil was still going on. It had been going on since the day before last, but they hadn't noticed amongst the all the activity of the Op. Only a few of them remained. Some held placards with the names of the dead. Others nursed tiny candles, nursing the delicate flames against the breeze. Another one, a dark haired man in his late twenties held nothing, but was looking straight at her. Their eyes met, the intensity of his hard stare making her inwardly flinch. But soon he moved from her, to whoever was standing behind her.

"Ruth, come on," said Harry, tugging at her elbow.

Minutes later, they were passing through the gates for the final time. Past the people lingering at the vigil, where Ruth looked for the man again. But he was gone. She turned her gaze from the vigil to Harry.

"Did you see that man?" she asked.

"No," he replied, turning the page of the paper.

She waited for him to add something, but he didn't, she continued: "He was looking right at me, or you. Tall, dark hair. About twenty-"

"No, Ruth. I didn't see him."

Ruth let the matter go and turned to watch the scenery passing by. They had only arrived four days ago, but it felt much longer after all that had happened. They were all tired and the last thing she wanted was a squabble with Harry. So tired, that the flight was the best opportunity they had had to get some much needed sleep.

Once back in London, Lucas and Ros took it upon themselves to take Beth home. But Harry, Ruth, Nathan and Olly lingered at the airport. They trailed down the steps of the plane and out on to the tarmac, standing some way off before forming a line. Under a grey sky, the mood quietened further as a small group of immaculately uniformed soldiers formed up at the cargo hold near the rear of the aircraft.

Harry slipped his arms around Ruth's middle, holding her tightly as the coffin – now draped in a union jack flag – was carried out onto the tarmac. A lone bugler played the Last Post as the remains of the real Andrew Gillan were borne to a waiting hearse. The forgotten victim that no one knew existed. Ruth watched him go with a tear in her eye. One more strand of the conflict closed.

"So, what did William Towers want?"

They ordered a take away, rather than cook on their first night back. An Italian meal served out of the boxes it came in. A bottle of wine was open on the dining room table between them. But Harry had remained quiet and withdrawn all evening and it was more than just the upheaval of the day. She thought he was about to brush her off again, but he put down his knife and fork, speaking to her without distraction.

"You know this Truth and Reconciliation thing the politicians agreed to host?" he asked.

Ruth nodded. "Yeah. It's modelled on the one in South Africa, isn't it? Victims and perpetrators come together to talk about the past, all under the same roof."

Harry nodded. "Towers is trying to rope me into it."

"You can't Harry," she replied. "It's not safe. You're a serving MI5 man, desk job or no."

"But ex-Servicemen are being interviewed from behind screens and with actors doing their voice-overs," he explained. "It will be pre-recorded."

It was still a chance for all those involved to tell their stories. A great unburdening of a bitter past and lingering pain. Ruth hated the word, but it sounded like 'closure.'

"If your anonymity is guaranteed, then I am all for it," she declared, waving a forkful of pasta.

Harry snorted derisively. "And what would I tell them?"

"Everything," she retorted. "But Bill Crombie would be a good place to start."

She watched as Harry paled and shutters come down.

"There is nothing to say on the matter," he bluntly stated, downing the rest of his wine.

* * *

That night, they lay in their own bed, sleepless and silent. Harry turned on his side, facing the far wall, where the curtains failed to block the streetlamp glare. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the man at the vigil. Bill Crombie Junior was the spitting image of his father; it was small wonder he'd taken him for a ghost when Harry first spotted him among those holding vigil outside the castle gates. Truth and reconciliation, Harry thought, it was just beyond his grasp. But maybe, one day, the time may come when hope and history rhyme.

**The End.**

* * *

**Thank you again for taking the time to read and review this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

**The story, however, is not quite over. There will be a sequel covering the Crombie issues, but I have no idea when it will be published.**

**It's very hard to add anything about the content of this story (which as you know is very much grounded in reality) without sounding trite or twee. Four thousand people were killed; sixty thousand left seriously injured. Countless others left grieving and deeply traumatised. I have lived in Northern Ireland for fifteen years and saw the peace process transform this place first hand. From when Army foot patrols still roamed the streets, until we saw them leave for the final time and everything in between. This war is over and this place is beautiful. Thank you again, and see you soon. **


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